


A Wasps' Nest

by CatherineLafontaine, Petra



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-01
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 69
Words: 138,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineLafontaine/pseuds/CatherineLafontaine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is an intimate ritual required of new members of Les Amis de l'ABC, and it doesn't stop at kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inception (1826)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a compilation of first person vignettes and roleplay logs edited for coherence.
> 
> All the unattributed chunks in italics are from the Project Gutenberg text of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, including the part where Marius tells Courfeyrac, "I have come to sleep with you."
> 
> The final chapter is a list of characters including their first names, as those are not given in canon.

Two young men sit at a table in the back of a rather dingy cafe. They sit next to each other and speak in low tones. The blond man, Julien Enjolras, fidgets with a small book in front of him and occasionally makes notes in it with a pencil. The other, Audric Combeferre, whose hair is darker and who sits with more of a slouch, has a thin, smudged sheet of paper and an earnest tone. " _Mon ami_ ," Combeferre says, "it would be for the best." 

Enjolras frowns at the page in front of him. "I don't understand why you're so determined on this." 

Combeferre frowns at Enjolras for a moment, then makes his expression clear. "There must be complete loyalty in the sort of organization you propose, yes?" 

" _I_ propose?" Enjolras glances up sharply. "I don't think it was what I was proposing so much as what we were discussing."

Combeferre touches his hand lightly. "I wasn't trying to -- that is, I brought it up because you must -- we must have some way of ascertaining people's loyalty, mustn't we? You can't think of speaking out in public; you can't do that safely, and if you are arrested, what good are your quick wits to anyone?"

"Yes, but--"

"Do you trust me?" Combeferre asks abruptly.

Enjolras blinks. The pencil slips from his fingers; he catches it mechanically. "Audric..."

"You do, don't you?"

"You know I do." From pale he has gone white. "It isn't that."

Combeferre pushes his chair back a few inches. "But you don't trust my judgment?"

Enjolras straightens. "Do you expect me to accept this particular proposal without question? In God's name, _mon ami_ , we hardly know this boy, and you..."

Combeferre smiles at him. "I propose that we get to know him better."

Enjolras stands, his face burning, and catches up his book from the table. "It isn't funny."

"No, you're right." Combeferre sighs. "Sit down, would you? This is all a dangerous business, and I'm not trying to make light of it."

Enjolras glances down, though he stays standing. "I don't understand you, sometimes."

Combeferre shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Julien. Please, sit down."

Reluctantly, Enjolras resumes his seat.

"Thank you. I have to say, I don't entirely understand your reservations."

"I think they are perfectly reasonable reservations."

"Clearly you do." Combeferre pushes his chair back a few inches. "Then you don't trust Prouvaire?"

Enjolras shrugs. "Not entirely."

Combeferre taps his piece of paper. "And yet, you would discuss sedition with him?"

"Ideas." Enjolras looks stubborn.

"Dangerous ideas," Combeferre says, mildly.

"In which he expressed an interest."

"But he did not necessarily express commitment to your ideas -- splendid though they are." Combeferre shakes his head slightly. "I would not see you hurt, Julien. Not now. There are lamentably few ways to test the truth of what any man says, save by asking him for, ah, a greater loyalty."

Enjolras frowns at his hands. "What you suggest is as likely to frighten him away as anything else."

"Then you will know how trustworthy he is."

"Yes. And what becomes of you and me, _mon cher_ , if he is not?"

Combeferre looks quite falsely incredulous. "It is his word against ours, no? I can't imagine why anyone would spread such slander against us. Certainly, he will have no evidence to prove his allegations."

"Audric, damn it, this is serious."

"I'm being perfectly serious." Combeferre shrugs and begins ticking off points on his fingers. "He dresses like a madman -- no, like a romantic, which may well be worse in the eyes of a judge. He is a poet, and advertises himself as such -- hardly the most staid profession. He speaks poorly, at least about such low, brutish issues, and would have trouble making his assertions, let alone elaborating on them. And as a poet, albeit a flustered one, he surely overimbibes of absinthe. What court would credit him before us?"

Enjolras passes a hand across his face. "I suppose so."

"It's safe enough." Combeferre looks at Enjolras, frowning a little. "I wouldn't endanger you."

"Do you think I care for that?" Enjolras shrugs. "It just seems such a..."

"We won't push him, _mon ami_. Far from it."

"I should think not," severely.

Combeferre spreads his hands. "Then what are you worried about?"

"What a way to go about it." Enjolras rests his head in his hands for a moment.

Combeferre chuckles. "There are worse ways to proceed."

"But is this really necessary?"

After a moment, Combeferre starts drumming his fingers on the table. "How would you go about ascertaining the timbre of a man's heart, then?"

"Don't do that, it's maddening. --I -- I don't know."

Combeferre stops. "I don't know, either, but I know -- I know I can be sure of you."

Enjolras colors again. "All right," he says after a moment. "I take your point."

Combeferre smiles. "Thank you." 

* * *

Late the next evening, Enjolras paces the comfortable but somewhat sparse room he shares with Combeferre. It looks still more spartan than it usually does, as the papers and discarded clothing have been cleaned up. "You're certain--?"

Combeferre sits on the bed, fidgeting. "As certain as I can be."

"For God's sake, Audric--"

Combeferre shakes his head. "I didn't ask him, yet. How should I know what he is going to say?"

"I meant-- Never mind." Enjolras turns away, staring out the window.

"What did you mean?" Combeferre asks, patiently.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. "I meant, are you certain we should do this."

"It's for the best," Combeferre says, with a slightly forced smile. "If we take the issue to a crisis point -- then we'll know."

Enjolras hesitates, then: "If you say so."

"Whether we learn something that is to our benefit, or whether it causes a small amount of trouble, depends on Prouvaire."

"Yes." Enjolras folds his arms tightly, as though against a draft.

"But -- if it was that dangerous, I wouldn't recommend it," softly. "This will be all right."

"I--"

"What?"

Enjolras sits down on the bed and embraces him, mutely. Combeferre kisses his cheek. "It will be all right."

"I hope so."

"It will."

After a moment, Enjolras nods.

There is a knock on the door. Combeferre lets Enjolras go and stands, looking back at him worriedly. Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and rises. "Come in."

Prouvaire opens the door and hesitates on the threshold. His dark hair is long and thoroughly tousled by the wind, and his eyes seem similarly disordered. His cravat is askew, and clashes with his waistcoat, which is too big for him and does not go well with his jacket. "Good evening, _mes amis_."

Combeferre smiles. " _Bonsoir_ , Jean -- do come in."

"Evening," Enjolras murmurs, a trifle distantly.

"How are you tonight?" Prouvaire asks, smiling at Enjolras.

"Well enough," after a moment's pause. "And you?"

"The weather has made for a most interesting sunset," Prouvaire says lightly. "The clouds were swirling, and it would have been ominous, I suppose, except that they were bright orange-pink. It's difficult to be frightened of anything that vivid."

"I'm sorry I missed it," Combeferre says, amused. He glances around the room, which is rather small for entertaining, and falls silent.

Enjolras looks nonplussed. Sunsets, however splendid, are not something he knows how to converse about. "Well."

Prouvaire blinks into the sudden silence. "What did you want to discuss with me?"

Combeferre blushes and goes from looking at the ceiling to looking at the floor. "A personal matter."

"Audric," Enjolras chides. "If you put it that way, he'll think we hold something against him."

Prouvaire looks from Combeferre to Enjolras and chuckles. "I don't think that, Enjolras. Why would I? The two of you are so solemn about whatever this is. Are you always so serious?"

Enjolras flushes, for no immediately obvious reason.

Combeferre's eyes widen slightly. "No. We're not always -- quite this serious, no. Ah --" he glances at Enjolras, then walks over to Prouvaire and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Jehan, we have a few important questions for you."

"Do you?" Prouvaire grins at him. "Such as what?"

Combeferre glances at Enjolras again, then gives Prouvaire a long, searching look. "If I recall our conversations correctly, you have a few, ah, dangerous political ideas, no? Are you willing to risk your life for them?"

Prouvaire loses his grin and looks momentarily stoic, or as stoic as it is possible to look in a lavender cravat that is coming undone, and a rust colored waistcoat that hangs loosely enough to fit a child inside. "Yes. I suppose I am, if it would accomplish something."

Enjolras reaches past Combeferre's shoulder to brush Prouvaire's hair out of his face, lightly. "And you are prepared to pursue them that far? Beyond metaphors in your poetry and idle conversations in cafes?" It might sound pointed, if his tone were not so gentle.

"I --" Prouvaire gives Enjolras a level look, though his brow is creased. "Yes. I think so."

Combeferre clears his throat. "Are you prepared to swear to that, Jehan?"

"I -- I --" Prouvaire swallows. "Yes."

Enjolras nods slightly, and looks at Combeferre.

Combeferre hesitates for a moment, studying Prouvaire's face, then leans forward and kisses him lightly.

Prouvaire pulls away, his eyes wide and terrified. "What are you doing?"

Combeferre closes his eyes for a moment. "It's an adaptation of an ancient ritual, mon ami -- Jehan. Akin to a serf kissing the ring of his lord to seal a contract, except that this is _égalité_ , is it not? To seal a promise, to make it binding, one must put a bit more into it than words."

"I see -- I think." Prouvaire tentatively returns the kiss.

Enjolras, watching this with tense composure, takes in an imperceptible breath. "It's all right, Jehan. You needn't look so anxious."

Prouvaire is rather paler than normal. "I -- I wasn't expecting something quite this serious, that's all."

Combeferre squeezes Prouvaire's shoulder. "It's all right," in an earnest, comforting tone.

Enjolras extends a slender hand. "Trust us." And then, with an unexpected smile, "Or at the very least, trust Combeferre. I do."

Prouvaire takes Enjolras' hand and smiles, albeit a bit timorously. "All right."

Enjolras nods, and steps forward to kiss him in turn, gentle but intent.

Prouvaire shivers and returns the kiss, then steps away from Enjolras, smiling awkwardly. "Is that enough?"

Combeferre hesitates a moment, then puts a hand on Prouvaire's shoulder again, gently, and kisses him. This kiss is not as chaste as the first, and is rather longer and more suggestive. "Is that enough?" he asks in return, softly.

For a long moment, Prouvaire looks at him, and then at Enjolras. The confusion gradually leaves his expression. He embraces Combeferre, but glances at Enjolras again, while he speaks. "And what promise have you made to me, that you seal it so?"

Combeferre blushes. "Unity of purpose, Jehan."

"The same that you make to us," Enjolras adds, brushing his fingers across Prouvaire's cheek. "What else?"

"Ah." Prouvaire shivers. "I -- I think I understand. Some of it."

"Good," Combeferre says, smiling. "Someone should." He kisses Prouvaire again.

Prouvaire sighs and leans against Combeferre a little. "Ah, _mon ami_. Your promises."

Enjolras moves to stand behind him, running a hand down his back. "Are you reconsidering?" exchanging a look with Combeferre over Jehan's shoulder.

"No," Prouvaire says quickly. "No, I'm not reconsidering." He blinks a few times, trying to clear his eyes, and frowns at Combeferre, who is looking worriedly at Enjolras. "Should I go, now?"

Combeferre seems to wake up, and brings his hand up to touch Prouvaire's cheek. "Only if you want to."

Delicate fingers part Prouvaire's hair, and a kiss brushes the back of his neck. Enjolras says nothing.

Prouvaire gasps. "You -- oh, my. Oh, dear." He closes his eyes. "I can't say, really, that I'd like to leave."

"Very well." Enjolras leans in to kiss his cheek.

Combeferre lets Prouvaire go, enough that Jehan can turn and touch Enjolras' cheek. Prouvaire's eyes are rather wider and more uncomprehending than usual. " _Mes amis_ ," he asks, in a breathless voice, "are you certain that I'm not intruding?"

Combeferre chuckles. It sounds only slightly forced. "We invited you, didn't we?"

Enjolras colors faintly, and kisses Prouvaire to forestall further protests. Prouvaire sighs and embraces him, returning the kiss. Combeferre catches one of Enjolras' hands and squeezes it lightly, then lets go in order to run his hands down Prouvaire's back. 

"We ought to find the bed," he suggests, after a few moments. He steps away from Prouvaire, who clings to Enjolras abruptly lest he fall. Enjolras nods, and steadies the poet for a moment before guiding him to the bed. 


	2. Innocent (Prouvaire): April, 1826

I was expecting to meet Julien Enjolras and Audric Combeferre in Enjolras' flat for a pleasant conversation, and that perhaps we would go out to some café and get a drink. I was not expecting them to ask me to swear a solemn vow of friendship and brotherhood. Even less was I expecting the way they wanted to seal the vow -- with kisses, with love, with caresses.

I had only been in Paris for five months. On my fifteenth birthday, February 23rd, 1825, my parents said that within a year, they would have me established in Paris, independent of them for all but finances. It took them until the end of the summer to find me reliable lodgings close to a second cousin, and it took him until October to find a professor of literature who consented to mentor me. I had had to send him copies of my writings in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin before he would take me on, and even then he was somewhat reluctant. I left home with tearful goodbyes to my mother and father in November, and was comfortably installed in my own rooms by the end of that month.

In December, I had the great fortune to meet Julien and Audric. They were entirely enraptured with each other at the time, mostly numb to the rest of the world, with the air of lovers who have only discovered each other's charms in the last few months. I suspect that if they had been at all willing to act in a manner that they considered overt, I would have tired of their company quickly. As it was, they were doing their best to be subtle, and only mentioned each other once every few sentences, instead of once a sentence, which rendered them somewhat curious, but tolerable. We fell into a habit of speaking of all manner of things and staying out late into the night drinking coffee, a beverage my professor deplored. Sometimes, the topic would turn to politics, which made Audric nervous. He would always interrupt and change the subject if there was anyone around who looked as though he might be paying attention to what we were saying.

That night, when it all finally fell into place, I understood why. It was a fine April evening. I was looking forward to spending it with my friends. When they asked me to swear to uphold my politics to the death -- what was spring to that?

When Audric kissed me, what did new-budded flowers signify?

I had no concept of what they were going to do. I had seen pictures of lovely naked women, and read the sort of books anyone reads in his first months away from Maman's prying eyes, but this was nothing like that. It was real, and sweet. Audric untied my cravat the rest of the way; it had come undone earlier in the evening without my noticing or caring much. In the beginning, Julien seemed content to embrace me, as if he was as uncomfortable as I felt, at the start. Once Audric and I had managed to get through the labyrinth of buttons that separates a well-dressed man's skin from the air, both in the case of his waistcoat and shirt, and mine, Audric kissed me lightly on the neck and shifted a bit to help Julien undress. Their bed -- clearly one they shared habitually -- was perhaps comfortable for two men, but too small for three. I sat upon the pillow with my knees pulled up to my bare chest, watching them. Julien frowned and whispered something in Audric's ear. Audric kissed him and whispered a response, then turned and gave me his earnest smile that says everything will be all right, no matter how difficult it seems. He went back to unbuttoning Julien's waistcoat, but Julien pushed him away and said, "For heaven's sake, I can do it."

Audric caught one of his hands and kissed it. "I know you can. All right, all right." He shook his head a little and edged back up the bed to kiss me again. I sat forward, so that my knees were under me, and leaned forward, begging for a kiss with everything but words. "Breathe, Jehan," he said lightly, amused, and embraced me, as though that was going to help me breathe at all. I didn't know what to do except hug him in return. He kissed my ear, gently at first, and then nibbling on the earlobe, which made my heart skip. I could hear my own breath, shuddering and uneven. I closed my eyes and held him.

After a few moments during which I thoroughly lost track of time, Julien said, "Would you move over a little?" Audric let me go, and I turned to find out which direction Julien meant. He was shirtless, pale, and beautiful. He took one of my hands in his and tugged, so I moved in that direction, and half-fell into his arms. His skin was cool against mine, and when he kissed me, his breath was sweet. Audric ran his hands down my back, which made me shiver.

I felt as though I was drowning between them, and falling some great distance into madness, into love. Julien's hand was on my shoulder, soft and cool; his tongue was in my mouth, wet and hot. Audric's hands settled onto my shoulders from behind me. He squeezed Julien's fingers, and the muscles in my shoulder. I felt paradoxically safe, and as though I were going to faint. The only thing that supported me was a lightning-fork of desire that went down my spine and into my loins. I wanted them madly, though I did not know exactly what I wanted. If they had asked, I would only have been able to say, "More."

Julien broke the kiss, but not to ask me anything. He looked much calmer than I felt, but his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were open a little wider than usual. Audric said, _"Mon chéri,"_ not to me, but to Julien. He reached past me and touched Julien's lips. I had not been certain until then that they were lovers, but there was such love and intimacy in that gesture and those words. I knew vaguely then, and with increasing certainty, that I was between two men who felt that they were joined heart-to-heart.

For a moment, Julien smiled at Audric, but he gave me a more solemn look. "Let me help you a moment, Jehan," he said, in so normal a tone that he might have been offering to carry my books, but his hand went to the buttons of my pants. I was suddenly, irrationally afraid that he would notice that I was aroused. He could not have failed to notice, and he had been quite clearly trying to arouse me in any case.

Nevertheless, I was defensive. "No, I can do that," I protested, and I would have knocked his hand away, but he put his hand on the inside of my thigh.

"Let me -- _mon frère,_ " he said again, and went back to the task. All the while, Audric was watching my buffoonery over my shoulder and stroking one of my nipples, absentmindedly. When Julien had my trousers unfastened, he stopped for a moment, as if uncertain what the next step should be.

Audric moved to the side, so that he was no longer behind me, and gave me a light push, saying, "Lie back, Jehan." I would not have disobeyed him, even if I had remembered how to refuse anything at that point. I nearly fell backward. For a few moments, the world was a blur of dingy ceiling plaster and white linen sheets. They left me on the bed, and stood up, both to have a short discussion and to switch positions. I could not understand what they were saying, though I must admit I did not try very hard to hear. I was dazed with everything that had happened and blinded by desire for them. If I had been alone, I would have eased the pressure of lust that clouded my mind -- but I was waiting for them, and as curious to see what they would do next as I was desirous.

"Move a bit," Julien said softly, and nudged my shoulder. I edged sideways enough so that he could lie on the bed, on his side. He ran his hand down my chest.

The bed dipped a little as Audric joined us. I could not immediately fathom why he was sitting by my feet, but he shifted a little, enough to slide a warm, confident hand into my pants and cup my hip. I thought of at least six explanations between that movement and my own, half-reflexive response. I lifted my hips, and he chuckled, such a sweet, sane sound that everything seemed nearly normal, even as he was tugging my pants down. "Ah, Jehan," he said, almost a sigh, as he pulled the legs of my pants down over my feet. I should have helped, but I could not have found the wit to move unless they had both demanded that I leave immediately.

Julien kissed me again, and I thought I felt something akin to urgency in his touch. He doubtless felt it in mine. I wanted to say something intelligent to him, something complimentary, anything to prove that I was worthy of this beautiful insanity. I stopped kissing him for a second and grasped for words, then gasped for breath as the world went simultaneously wet and white-hot. Julien kissed me again, somewhere in the midst of it, and his fingers were on at least one of my nipples. But I was lost in a meaningless, beautiful world for what felt like the better part of ten minutes, though it could not have been anywhere near so long. When the rapture faded, I realized that the exquisite sensation had been Audric, taking my penis in his mouth. Julien was sitting as close to the wall as possible, and avoiding touching me. Audric was looking justly pleased with himself and a bit damp. He had sat up and settled back a bit.

I was immediately ashamed of myself. He had offered me an intimate gift, and I had not bothered to savor it for a moment. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, and hid my face in the crook of my elbow.

Audric touched my thigh. "What's wrong?" I did not respond. "Jehan, what is it?" He sounded thoroughly distressed.

"Nothing," I said, into my elbow, "but that I'm an idiot."

"You are not," he said, most firmly. "Look at me, would you?" The bed shifted. I uncovered my eyes and sat up a little. Julien was climbing off the end of the bed past Audric. Audric reached up to touch his face for a moment, then looked back at me. "Better." He straightened a bit, balancing on his knees, then slid up the bed to lie where Julien had been a moment previously. "Now, mon ami, don't be so upset." His fingers brushed my thigh, gently, and made me shiver. "There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"But --" I protested, and closed my eyes again. I heard a rustle and a papery sound from farther away: Julien had sat down and started to write by the half-light from outside.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, between us." Audric kissed my cheek and drew his hand away from my leg. "Do you think that I should be offended because you desired me?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry." I turned away from him and hid my face in the palm of my hand.

He took hold of my wrist and pulled my hand toward him. "I am not offended. Far from it." He kissed my palm, then laid my hand on the curve of his stomach, low enough that I could feel the stiff curls of his hair. He had unfastened his pants at some point, possibly when I was half-unconscious with pleasure. Audric said, "There is no shame in this, _mon frère._ There is only _liberté, fraternité_ \--" more softly "-- and love."

I could not think about what he was saying. His tone had more meaning to me, then, than any words he could have composed to comfort me. The tacit invitation, the unspoken request was enough to make my breath catch. "Oh," I said, and turned to face him better. That he could want such a thing from me, only moments after I had so offended his dignity -- if I had been able to think, I would have been surprised. I hesitated for a moment, then slid my hand lower. 

Audric gasped, then kissed my cheek. "If you would like --" and I realized, somewhat to my surprise that I would like to, indeed, and that it was more than a sense of obligation.

It was like, and unlike, touching myself. The heat of his skin was familiar, and the texture of it not greatly different from my own. But he gasped and pushed against me in a way that I would never have felt, nor bothered to feign, if I had been touching myself. He murmured to me all the while, words of love and brotherhood, and of how brilliant and lovely I was. I felt that I was going to catch fire from embarrassment, but also from desire. I wanted to please him, as he had pleased me, and return some of the sense of urgent madness that he had inspired in me. When he stopped being able to murmur, or ran out of interesting things to say, I smiled at him and kissed him. He tasted of salt, and of lust; if he had seemed innocent before when he held me, the illusion was shattered now. He made a small sound as I was kissing him and rocked his hips into my hand a little harder. I responded to this plea and continued, though I was not sure how pleasurable he was finding any of it. I had my answer within moments; he cried out, and abruptly my hand was wet. I had been in something of a reverie, focusing on pleasing him without remembering the logical outcome of my actions. He surprised me. For a moment, I could not think of what to do.

There was a clatter behind me. I turned -- Audric did not seem much in need to my attentions at that moment; his eyes were closed and he was smiling. Julien had moved since I was last aware of him. From what I could tell, he had been standing by the edge of the bed the whole time. He handed me a handkerchief and said, "Here, use this," in his matter-of-fact way. I felt as though I was intruding between them, though I could not find the words to explain that, and neither could I phrase an apology.

I handed the handkerchief back and sat up, then got out of bed in the only gesture of renunciation I could manage. "I have my own." I turned to look for it in the muddle of clothing I had been wearing earlier.

Audric said, "Jehan," behind me, but then the bed creaked as Julien sat down. I felt vulnerable and cold, standing in their bedroom naked while they embraced, privy to their whispers and dirty with the cooling sweat of desire. They did not want me there, clearly, and they certainly did not need me. They were complete unto themselves; I was extraneous, imposing myself into their private peace.

They were speaking about me, clearly. Little else would have held their attention for long while I stood in their bedroom and wished that I were anywhere but there. I crossed my arms over my chest after I had found my handkerchief, and started to shiver. I was trying not to think about them and what they might be saying, and trying to forget that they were there. When Julien laid his hand on my shoulder, I startled. He frowned a little. "Come back to bed, please."

I looked at the floor. "All right."

He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up. "Please, Jehan," he said. It was still more a command than a question, and then he kissed me. I embraced him, and discovered that when I was ignoring him to the best of my abilities, he had taken off the rest of his clothes. Audric stood and came over to touch my shoulder for a moment before he stepped back. Julien let me go, but kept a hand on my upper arm. "Shall we?"

I nodded, looking away from him. I could feel that I was blushing; there was something about Julien that was much more intimidating than his lover could ever be. I could not refuse this offer, even though I was somewhat afraid. He wanted this as a proof of commitment, clearly, and I was more than willing to commit to him. I sat on his bed, where the sheets were still warm from his body and Audric's. He sat beside me, oddly elegant even in his nudity, and kissed my cheek. "Lie back a bit, Jehan." He kept a hand on my shoulder while I moved a bit sideways and lay down correctly, and he stretched out beside me as soon as he was settled.

For a moment, he looked at me, studying my face, and I was not sure what he was seeking. He closed his eyes for the space of a breath, then put his hand between my legs, tentatively, and asked, "May I?" I closed my eyes and nodded.

He was not quite as gentle as I would have been, and he was utterly quiet. He kept his hand on my shoulder, and at odd intervals he would kiss my cheek. He was focused on the very simple task that he had set himself in this strange charade, and though his beloved had driven me out of my mind not terribly long before, I was far from immune to his charms or his ministrations. I did not waste much of his time with patience, though I was not quite as desperate as I had been before. I said, "Ah, Julien," at the height of it, as much to warn him as anything.

When it was finished, he said, _"Mon frère,"_ and kissed me, then got up and fetched a rather pathetic handkerchief.

Audric said lightly, "If we are all going to sleep here, you're going to have to move over, Jehan." I had all but forgotten that he was there, and remembering made me blush.

"I'm sorry," I said, half to the pillow. "If you want me to go --"

Audric glanced at Julien before he answered. "No. Please, stay here."

I edged over so that I was almost falling between the bed and the wall. "All right."

"Don't look so worried." Audric joined me after a moment and kissed my cheek, then gave me a real kiss. "Everything is all right, now. -- Here, let me sleep on the edge. I'm more used to the bed." We traded places a little awkwardly, and he embraced me. After a few moments, Julien joined us. He, too, put an arm around me. The bed was too narrow for three, but we managed to fit, and there was something comforting about the close quarters, as if we really were brothers sharing a bed.


	3. Inception (1826)

Rosy-fingered dawn arrives at the appointed time, but three young men completely miss her arrival and subsequent departure, due to inordinate amounts of exercise the night before. Enjolras wakes first and disentangles himself with a disdainful expression, then performs his morning ablutions. A while later, Prouvaire stirs. He still has an arm around Combeferre, and his hair is most thoroughly tousled. He smiles with some bewilderment at Enjolras. "Good morning, Julien."

Enjolras turns to look at him, his expression momentarily blank. "Good morning."

Prouvaire stretches. "Come back to bed?"

"It's nearly nine o'clock," Enjolras says, not unkindly. "You should be getting up."

"Ah. You're probably right." Prouvaire touches Combeferre's cheek lightly. "But it's comfortable, here."

Enjolras gives him a level look. "Yes?"

Prouvaire blinks at Enjolras. "I don't have that many pressing obligations at this hour, not on a Monday. Are you so eager to be rid of me?"

"Perhaps you don't. I'm afraid we do." Enjolras shrugs, expressionless.

Prouvaire sits up. "Then I shall get out of your way."

Enjolras nods, with perfect courtesy, and hands him his shirt. "Good morning."

Prouvaire puts it on. "Shall I see you tonight, then?"

"This afternoon? I should think so."

Prouvaire nods, then blushes and glances down at Combeferre, who is still asleep. "And tonight?"

The blue eyes fix on him, suddenly much less mild. "What about it?"

"Shall I -- shall I see you?"

"I told you when you will see us."

Prouvaire runs his hand through his hair. "I mean -- will it be like tonight?"

Enjolras's tone hardens. "Why?"

"Because it was lovely." Prouvaire stands up and puts his pants on, in approximately that order. "Because, sweet God, Julien, it was splendid."

The color rushes to Enjolras's face. He turns away sharply, looking out the window. "What of it?"

Prouvaire crosses the room and puts a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever wanted -- I mean -- you would only have to ask."

Enjolras shrugs off the hand. "Very well." And then, turning back to follow up the thought, "Why?"

Prouvaire frowns. "Why not?"

Enjolras takes him roughly by the shoulders, scowling at him. "What do you think you're here for, Jean?"

Prouvaire makes a distressed noise. "I --"

Behind Prouvaire, Combeferre sighs, and sits up, then says, "Julien," sharply.

Enjolras lets Prouvaire go abruptly, reddening, and steps away. "Good morning."

Prouvaire backs away and stumbles a bit. "Good morning." He gets over to the door by the time Combeferre speaks.

Combeferre blinks sleepily. "Are you leaving already, then?"

Prouvaire looks from him to Enjolras. "Yes, I suppose I am. Goodbye." He opens the door and goes out, clattering down the stairs on his way.

Enjolras gives the door a pained look, and turns back toward the window, taking a great many pains over finding his coat.

"What on earth did you say to him?" Combeferre rubs his eyes.

"Nothing," defensively.

"Then what frightened him?" Combeferre gets up and begins to get dressed.

"He's a fool." Enjolras pulls his coat on, scowling. "An obtuse, sentimental, chattering fool. He-- I'll be damned if I let you talk me into anything like that again."

Combeferre shakes his head slightly. "He's a boy." After a moment, "Surely you knew he's sentimental. That was part of why I suggested all of this."

Enjolras crosses to the desk, turning over books and papers with controlled fury. "He didn't understand at all. He asked me--"

Combeferre gets up and, after a few moments, finds a relatively clean shirt. "What did he ask?" in a calm, soothing tone.

"What do you think?"

Combeferre frowns slightly and finds a pair of pants. "I don't know what would bother you this much."

"He wanted to know," precise and acid, "if he has a standing invitation. _God_ , Audric!"

"Ah," softly, as he buttons his cuffs. "It seems a logical sort of question."

Enjolras slams down the book in his hand. "Logical!"

"Yes." Combeferre shrugs into his waistcoat. "And you told him no, and that's the end of that question."

"If that was the first question he thought to ask, then he must have missed the point entirely." Enjolras is trembling.

Combeferre puts a steady hand on his shoulder. "It may be that he understood better than you give him credit for -- and he understood all of the important points, and only missed the one of least importance."

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. "This is insane."

"Ah," again, gently. Combeferre considers this. "He trusted you enough to ask such a question, didn't he, and he is not afraid -- or was not. Forgive him a little foolishness, _mon adoré_. He is young."

After a moment, the trembling stops. "I meant to talk to him, before he ran off."

"We'll see him again." Combeferre strokes Enjolras' hair softly.

"Not here!" Enjolras looks up, half imperious, half desperate. "Not like this."

"No, no." Combeferre smiles. "Like normal people. Like friends -- or confidantes. In a cafe, perhaps this evening, and we will talk then."

Enjolras gazes at him for a minute, hesitating.

"It will be all right."

"I--" Enjolras glances away. "What would you have said to him?"

Combeferre touches his cheek. "That this was only once, only to seal the promise, but that he is always welcome to speak to us."

"That was what I tried to say," muted.

"Then we were thinking alike." Combeferre smiles at him.

Enjolras sighs and embraces him.

Combeferre kisses his cheek. "It's all right."

A deep breath. "If you say so."

"I meant it. He was understandably flustered, but it will sort itself out."

Enjolras closes his eyes a moment, and nods.

"Within a few days, it will be settled."

"I suppose."

Combeferre kisses him. "It will be all right."

"So you said." Enjolras pulls away. "We should be going."

"Yes, we should." Combeferre picks up his jacket and puts it on. "Shall we?"

Enjolras touches his arm lightly, and goes out.


	4. Smitten (Prouvaire)

I believe I have fallen in love with Bossuet -- not the priest, but the student. This is not a surprise, either to me or to him, I should think, for we have been spending a great deal of time in each other's company in the last few months. He seems quite fond of me, and of my rather revolutionary compatriots. A brave man, Laigle, if a little foolhardy.

Last month, I told Audric that I thought Bossuet would be an admirable addition to our seedling _fraternité_. It took him that long to convince Julien that I might possibly be right. Three nights ago, they explained it all to him: the brotherhood, the need for the utmost care in choosing one's companions, and the way the vow should be sealed. He laughed until Julien was on the verge of leaving, and then explained, all hiccoughing with chuckles, that he was laughing at good fortune, not at their kind, bizarre offer.

He went home with them that night. If one seduced him and the other abstained, I don't want to know. I couldn't sleep for the jealousy that twined in my stomach and threatened to burn its way out of me in rage. If I had protested, would Audric have listened? Surely Julien would have been glad to forgo the earthly pleasure of a kiss from Bossuet. He was not glad to receive any of the affection he asked of me. Monsieur Enjolras is above such things, is he not?

The next night, the three of them were all stammers and discomfort, and would hardly talk to each other or me until Julien shook his head and resolved to act normally. After that, Bossuet dropped a plate, and Audric helped him clean it up. It was very nearly like an average night until the end, when Julien and Audric went off with their arms around each other's waists, inseparable as if they had never taken my Eagle home and pressed themselves upon his person. I was willing to wait until he had gone, too, and then walk home alone, but he touched my shoulder and made me watch them leaving. He said in a rough undertone that he would like to have someone who looked at him with that sort of affection.

I kissed him on the cheek, and said, in a voice that wobbled too much, "Would you come home with me?"

He smiled at me. He looks wonderfully surprised sometimes when the world treats him well instead of poorly. "Of course, _mon ami_ , if you'll have me. After all, I haven't sworn to you, have I?" I must have looked as dismayed by this as I felt, because he frowned. "What?"

"I didn't mean just that, or -- or really that at all." I felt my cheeks heat with a blush, as they tend to do at the most inconvenient times. I looked away to hide my embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I'm not a terribly good conspirator."

He touched my cheek. "I think I knew that. The first bit, anyway. I don't believe the second."

"Bossuet -- I want to go home."

"All right."

We didn't speak much as we walked together. I couldn't think of anything to say. My mind was quite consumed by thoughts of what would happen when we arrived, and where that might lead. If he was as fond of me as he seemed, and goodness knew I had been fond of him for quite some time -- and if he wanted something more from me than a simple promise -- it could be important. I was also entertaining rather guilty thoughts of how pleasurable the evening might be, but when I thought of such things I couldn't look at him properly, so I tried to distract myself from those speculations.

When we arrived in the dark, cluttered, book-littered room that my parents pay for, and I locked the door safely, he took me in his arms and kissed my face a hundred times, light, teasing kisses with murmurs and compliments between until I was clinging to him, on the verge of tears with happiness. I kissed him as best I could in return, eagerly. He blinked at me in the darkness, my cravat in his hand, and smiled. "Ah, _petit._ Sometimes I forget how young you are."

I blushed and pulled away from him, stammering, "I'm sorry." I hadn't realized how transparent my inexperience would be. Neither Julien nor Audric had commented on it, those many months before. Perhaps they had attributed any hesitation on my part to their presence, and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I hadn't sought anyone else's bed since that night, not because I had any logical hope that I would be invited back into their company, but because it had been like being struck by lightning. No girl who flirted with me for a chance to dip her hand into my purse could compare to the maddening experience of being seduced by one's friends, surrounded in affection and overcome by pleasure. They were skilled, if somewhat bewildered by the plurality of the evening, and they were confident enough to draw me into their adventure though I didn't know what I was doing.

Bossuet was entirely different. He was not drunk on the passion of the moment; he did not have another lover there, accustomed to his rhythms and his habits; he expected me to have the faintest idea of what to do next. It didn't help that I knew all too well what he had been doing the night before, and that with a little imagination I could taste Julien and Audric on his lips. When he murmured, "Sweet Jehan," that was certainly an epithet he had used the night before, not one that belonged to me. The only endearment I knew he wouldn't have applied to either of them was _"petit,"_ and that was not particularly complimentary.

He was upset that I had refused his embrace. "Jehan, I didn't mean to offend you."

I looked at the floor. "No, I know -- I'm sorry." I folded my arms over my chest. "I ought to know what I'm doing."

"It's all right." He touched my cheek, and I glanced up for a moment, then away. He was so serious in the light from the lamps outside that I looked back, again, and he smiled. "You don't need to know."

"But I'll do something wrong."

"Then I'll tell you what was wrong. Don't worry so much; I make mistakes all the time." He was still grinning at me in that disarming way that could reassure anyone. 

I wasn't entirely reassured, yet. I protested, "Yes, but I won't know what to do."

He touched my shoulder. "Then I'll show you." I uncrossed my arms and embraced him. He stroked my hair and said, "It's all right. Truly. No one was born knowing any of this."

"I know." I sighed. "It's just that I feel as though I'm inconveniencing you, and you would rather be with someone else."

"Someone -- no, no." He kissed me, in a way that made me shiver. I wanted to remember every movement of his lips and his tongue, so that I could return them and make him feel the rush of passion in my veins. "I want this -- with you." He ran his fingers through my hair. I returned the gesture, carefully, for his hair is thinning quite severely. He looks more than a decade my senior, until one sees his smile and the lack of lines on his face.

"Oh, Théophile --" I kissed him back, thinking about every step of it, and he pulled me close again. He is taller than I am, and more broad-shouldered. I have to tip my head back and to the side to kiss him, and when he embraces me, I can feel his strength and his size. I am not yet a man, perhaps -- though I live far from my parents, they pay my expenses. Bossuet is a man, and he feels like one in my arms.

"It's all right," he told me again, in the soft, half-unconscious way that one speaks to a frightened child or a frightened animal.

I didn't think I was being quite that irrational. "I know it's all right," I said, and if I sounded impatient, surely he was not surprised. "I invited you home, didn't I?"

"Of course you did." He kissed me again. "See, I told you I make mistakes."

"You didn't -- well --" I shook my head. "Don't make me think. Not now."

"Not unless you want to." 

"No. Not now." I buried my face in his shoulder.

If love is always as gentle and sweet as that, I made a mistake in forgoing such pleasures for so many months. We promised to each other all of the brotherly vows that were the official reason for this evening, but it went far beyond sealing promises. I learned a few things as the evening went on, and he surprised me. He wanted to give me more pleasure than I could return to him, and he said, teasing me, that youth had a few advantages. He is only six years my senior, and so I laughed at this, until he demonstrated and took my breath away, again.

He fell asleep in my bed, exhausted and, I think, happy. We woke entwined, a little sore, a little sweaty, but still happy. I was going to get up and dress before he woke, but he caught my wrist when I was half out of bed and pulled me back to kiss me, and then said, _"Je t'aime,"_ in a tone that might be teasing, if it was not Bossuet, if it was not that moment. I think I blushed before I was able to respond in kind, and seal it with a kiss. He drew me back into bed, or I got back into bed, and we made love again before he went to his class without breakfast.

That evening, Audric smiled at me as I came into the café, before Bossuet arrived, and asked, "Did you have a productive night?"

I smiled. I had hardly been able to keep from beaming like a fool all day long, and I was finally with men I could confide in. "I'm in love," I said, and sat down at their table. 

Julien frowned at me. "That is not what he asked."

I felt myself blush. "We promised to each other, as we were going to do -- supposed to do. But it was more than just a promise -- rather, I imagine, like your first meeting like that, the two of you." Julien had the grace to blush.

Audric laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, then."

"I don't think you should discuss such things, here," Julien said sharply.

"No, you're right." Audric sounded chastened.

"We ought to have a rule, if some of our members are inclined to such discussions," Julien said, and gave me an irritated look.

"A rule about what?" Bossuet asked, as he came in the door. He grinned at me and came to sit beside me, edging his chair rather closer than usual.

"A guideline concerning when it is appropriate to have, ah, intimate discussions," Audric explained. "Perhaps -- not before a meeting, clearly not during --"

Julien said, "Certainly not."

Audric continued, "Only after, then, at least five minutes after the close of the meeting?"

I said, "All right," as much to stop Julien from glaring at me as anything.

"I can abide by that unless I forget," Bossuet said, smiling. He put his hand on my knee under the table.

"If you forget, I shall remind you." Julien sounded mollified. We went on to talk of important things, the day's events and the coverage in the papers that still dared to print anything resembling the truth. After that, Audric brought up a few archaic points from the constitution of Sparta and proceeded to explain them to us, and how they might apply to our France. We digressed a little, from time to time, but Julien would bring us back to what he considered important topics. I had some trouble concentrating because Bossuet had his hand on my thigh most of the evening, and whenever I managed to forget it, he would fidget a little or use that hand to gesture, and then put it back. Perhaps I made a few useful comments, but it was certainly less than what I usually managed to put into words. If the other two noticed how we were sitting, they said nothing.

After a couple of hours, Audric started yawning frequently, and he suggested to Julien, "Perhaps we should go home."

"It's early," Julien protested, but Audric yawned again and managed to infect him with it. "All right, all right."

"Goodnight -- _mes frères,"_ Bossuet said, nodding to them.

I echoed, "Goodnight."

They said good night to us in turn and went off. As the door swung shut behind Audric, I turned to complain to Bossuet about his consistent imposition on my person. He kissed me just as I opened my mouth. It was a less than optimal collision. I spluttered. He pulled away, saying, "I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "It's all right, but for heaven's sake, don't do that."

He blinked. "Don't kiss you?"

"No." I lowered my voice. "Kiss me all you like, but not here, and don't put your hands in my lap."

"Oh, is that all? All right." He touched my cheek. "Come home with me, Jehan."

I smiled, though I could feel that my cheeks were hot. "All right." We walked to his flat together, talking of nothing in particular. When we arrived, I told him again that I loved him, and he kissed me, and said it back. 


	5. Initiation: February, 1827

Light shines in through a window, the silver-grey emotionless sheen of the moon rather than glad sunbeams. The window is high in the wall, enough for privacy, or it would be curtained. There are three men in the room. Two are in bed, naked, and making love. One is concentrating; his face, in a stray flash of moonlight, is a beautiful, silent mask. His companion is debauched by contrast, his hair a riot of curls strewn across the pillow, his lips a little swollen -- though surely his somber lover would not have kissed him as roughly as that. He gasps and pleads with the solemn one, swears repeated oaths and invokes a variety of deities. Most frequently, he calls his lover's name, "Julien, Julien," breathlessly. When his eyes focus well enough for him to see, he returns Julien's gaze. They are thinking only of each other, and seem to have forgotten that there is a third man in the room.

He is taking advantage of this to observe them carefully, almost dispassionately, to all appearances. He is soberly dressed by comparison to his sweating colleagues; though he wears no jacket, his waistcoat is buttoned to the neck. Something about his manner suggests detachment, as though he were reading an erotic novel, not observing two of his friends cavorting. If, that is, anyone with as serene a demeanor as Julien, with the frown lines between his eyebrows and (the watcher notes with a certain fondness) a small, oddly-shaped mole on his left buttock -- if such a one could be said to cavort, which is doubtful. His companion is cavorting for all he is worth. The one watching seems as incongruously relaxed and absent as Julien. His pants may not be completely comfortable at the moment, but he does nothing about that. 

When the men in bed finish, the first with a strangled " _Je t'aime_ ," Julien a little afterward with no more than a gasp, they lie entangled for a few moments. Eventually Julien suggests that they should make room for the other -- Audric -- and reaches over the side of the bed in search of a handkerchief. Audric chuckles at this and strides over to press the clean, lace-edged hanky from his waistcoat pocket into his hand. Julien murmurs his thanks and makes use of it to marginally sanitize his person. Audric watches this rather forlorn process with a wistful smile, then turns away and begins undressing. The man who was vocal in his passion -- Aimery -- seems to have expended most of his energy. He dozes until Audric gets into bed, as naked as the other two. Audric's earlier apparent interest seems to have waned. He smiles at Aimery for a moment, and kisses him for the space of two breaths. 

"Goodnight, then," Aimery says with a wink at Audric.

Audric pats his shoulder. "Goodnight." He sits up and leans over to kiss Julien; the kiss they share is no longer than the other. "Goodnight," they say to each other, quietly, before Audric settles back and embraces Aimery. There is no passion apparent in this gesture, or if there is, none of them show a sign of noticing it. Julien and Aimery fall asleep within a few minutes. 


	6. Generosity (Combeferre): March, 1827

Julien would be hurt if he knew what I was thinking yesterday. I was triumphant, I was joyous, I was overwhelmingly and surprisingly in love. I knew I cared for Aimery rather more than for the others -- more, and differently. It is not the same constellation of emotions that I feel for Julien, either. I love Julien with all my heart, but I would not be lost if he decided that he wanted to deny me physical affection. Today, I feel as though I deserve that sanction from him, not his continuing trust and love. He knew I was going to spend the night with Aimery, and I told him that I would not go if he would rather I didn't, but I still feel that I have betrayed him.

I wouldn't worry so much, I think, if I enjoyed all of this as little as he seems to enjoy it. If I could muster that level of passionate involvement, that utter concentration, and feign his lack of emotion, then I would be as faithful to him as he is to me. What is the balance point of égalité if he is true to me, and I whisper words of love to another? I have offended against his faith in me, even if he doesn't say he's upset.

It is not that Aimery will or could supersede Julien in my affections. They are such different men that neither could replace the other -- but I could not explain this to Julien well enough to justify it, not when Aimery joined our fraternité at my suggestion. I did not suggest it solely because I desired him, but if I admit to the depth of feeling I have for him, how credible is my protestation that he is wise as well as charming? I desire him, but it is a different sort of desire than that I feel for Julien.

There is love in the way that Julien touches me, in his eyes and words when we are together. He is always careful, and so focused that I sometimes feel he must think about any pleasure, or he would not sense it at all. When we are together, there is nothing between us but the barrier of his thoughts and his ever-present restraint. For all that I love him, I sometimes suspect that he does not return that feeling, and no sweet endearments can convince me otherwise. He needs my love and he returns it as much as he is able, but he does not need, and probably does not want, a physical manifestation of that love. I have seen him manifest desire by sheer force of will often enough, in another's arms, that I can't quite credit his desire for me. He accepts my caresses as though they are gifts I would like to give him. He is sometimes disdainful, and infrequently amorous, but never abandoned.

He is always a little detached, a little above me and a little out of reach. We love each other, inasmuch as he loves anyone, and we would trust each other with our lives, but I can't confide in him. I used to be able to confide in him, but he can't cope with knowing he's made me uncomfortable. When I am not entirely happy with him, I want to talk about it with someone, anyone I can trust. It has been a long time since I could speak to anyone about Julien.

Aimery listens, and I believe he cares. He has advice from time to time, as anyone might, and it is all the more valuable because he understands Julien and me so well. He has known us nearly a year, though he is the newest member of our loving brotherhood, and he has known that Julien and I are in love for nearly as long as he has known us. And he loves me, as a friend, and as a lover. Aimery, mon Aimé, is far from stingy with his affection.

He exhausts me and he delights me, this sweet boy with his maddening kisses and generous soul. He knows very well what other people need, and he is confident that he can give them whatever that is. It has only been a month since he swore to trust us all, and sealed that with his heart and body. He insisted on doing it correctly, as correctly as anything is correct in this coterie. He swore to Julien first, with the sincerity of any knight promising his sword to his liege; how feudal we have become in our search for liberté. I was present, at his request. He must have known even then how I cared about him. The next night, he teased me for my hesitation the night before, and said that he loved me, in the breathless, earnest way Aimery makes his promises. I lost something of myself in his embrace, in a way that I had never felt, not even with Julien. There is a freedom and careless joy in the way he makes love that stole my heart and frightened me. I feared that I had hurt him, at first, but he laughed again in a way that would have infuriated Julien. Julien hates for anyone to make light of a vow that could mean the difference between life and death.

Aimery was not lessening the vow, nor the sanctity of what we had shared. I knew it at the time, and I knew that I wanted to hold him again. I drew away from him for weeks; I was afraid that I was going to offend Julien and somehow lose them both. Although I had said nothing, Aimery knew, and two nights ago he drew me aside at the end of a meeting. He told me that I would be more than welcome in his bed, and he kissed me.

I told Julien almost all the truth -- what Aimery had done, and what he'd said, and what I wanted, but not how much I wanted it. He would have been hurt if I had told him how I ached to touch someone else, to confide in him, and to love someone who is more alive, more accessible than Julien wants to seem. Julien was a little doubtful, but he gave me permission to go. That was why I had told him. I could not have gone, leaving him in ignorance, knowing that he was waiting for me to come home. But he knew, and he did not stop me from leaving with Aimery, as somewhere behind me Jehan chuckled and murmured something to Bossuet. Daniel must despair of all of us, now, but I shan't restrain myself for the benefit of his sensibilities.

I told Aimery the truth, as far as I could articulate it. He knows I want him, he knows I love him, and he knows that I will never love him more than I love Julien. I told him, in a few moments of boneless lassitude, what I would have liked to do on that first night, when he held my Julien in his arms. I don't suppose I could ever tell Julien such a thing. He would lose respect for me, and faith in me. Still -- I love them both, and I desire them both. Is it a natural extension of that affection to wish that we could share a bed, or is it greed? I don't know. Aimery was not averse to the idea, but I am coming to understand that there are few such ideas that he would dismiss out of hand.

He knows now what I think of this brotherhood, on the face of it, but not the deeper truth. He knows that I love mes frères, that I sometimes despair of them, and that I have never shared a bed with any of them other than in the initiation. He does not know, yet, why they must be so close to each other. Would that they -- we -- were all as loving as Aimery, and took such pleasure in sharing our hearts and beds. Perhaps then this would be what I wanted: a bond of love and joy in life, something to ground the bright idealists in their romantic fancies and keep their eyes on what is and what will be, rather than the dream of what can be. I wish that Aimery could make Julien feel as I feel, today, so glad to be alive. I know I don't make him feel like this, and nothing short of a revolution could. Still, I have to hope. There must be someone in Paris who can bind him to the future that comes closer every day, not the visions he sees, as far away as the sun, and as dangerously bright.

I couldn't tell Aimery that this is all to protect Julien from himself. He would have laughed at me, or been angry that I presume so much against my lover's liberté. I haven't told any of them, yet. They are dreamers, as he is, but I can help them see the joy in the moment, and the possibilities that are coming. I can teach them that they need not reach out to the future; it is coming as fast as it has ever travelled, and we have only to work toward it, not draw it nearer. If they all learn a little patience, perhaps they can -- between all of them -- teach Julien a little, or force him to exercise it whether he has learned it or not. If I could have made them vow to keep him safe, I would have done that. Aimery would swear that vow, if I asked, and share the burden of responsibility with me. I think that I shall share it with him, if he ever invites me home again. 


	7. Luck (Prouvaire): May, 1827

"And where did this come from?" I asked, running my fingers around a bruise on his shin.

"I'm not sure," he said, grinning at me. "Some table somewhere has a grudge against me."

"Poor Théo." I clucked my tongue and kissed his knee lightly. "All the furniture in the world is out to get you."

He shook his head, chuckling. "Not all of it."

"No?" I edged up the bed a little, running my hand over his thigh.

He ran his fingers through my hair, and his expression changed from one of a man who finds the world against him but is willing to bear it to that of someone entirely happy with his present situation. "This bed treats me well, most of the time."

"I should hope so." I nuzzled his stomach.

"We're none too kind to it, _chéri._ I wouldn't be too surprised if it took its revenge sooner or later."

"With any luck at all, it will wait a few minutes, at least." I smiled at him again to see the twinkle in his eye, then kissed his thigh.

He shivered and said, "I hope so," then gasped as I took him in my mouth.


	8. Discovery (Combeferre): June, 1827

For years, I thought Julien did not like making love. He will never, never ask me in words, and hardly ever in any direct fashion at all. He will kiss me, then turn away. And when I ask, "What's wrong?"

The answer, invariably, is "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" And if I touch his shoulder then, he will turn and embrace me, or shudder.

"I'm sure."

"All right." If he is in my arms then he will kiss me; if he is not he might embrace me, as though it is too much for him to bear, as though it is simply impossible to admit that he wants anything until he is trembling in my arms with desire and inexplicable embarrassment.

If he has turned away and leaves me alone, if he does not break his composure, I never know whether he wants anything from me but peace. I would never impose on him if I knew it was an imposition. How could I not doubt that when I turn to him in the night, impassioned with the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin, that sometimes he does not want the caresses I am aching to give him? He does not ask unless I push him to it, and even then he is embarrassed.

In turn, he is embarrassed when I ask him anything, even if it is something that I know he would like, moreso if it is something he has little or no experience with, and then I am more likely to abandon the topic than press him into it.

I would spend an inordinate amount of time in his arms if I could, if I knew he wanted it, but he does not seem to want half as much as I do. Sometimes I think he accepts my advances only to clear his head, only to make me happy for half a moment, not for the joy of them. How different my lovers are -- Aimery, who could spend half the day making love, Julien, who hates the subject and sometimes hates the act. And I am between them, I suppose, in that I do not find it infinitely amazing, but neither do I abhor it.

But Julien does not hate it, all the time, however much he may wish he did. He merely thinks of it as a waste of time if it goes on too long, or an embarrassment if it asks too much of him. The only way I can teach him anything or convince him to try anything new is by showing him what the pleasure in it is before he can demand a full, difficult, unappealing explanation. There is no delicate way to explain so many things, and yet it seems that some of the ones that sound the worst are the most amazing in practice. With something esoteric, I find it is better to surprise him, and sometimes he is entirely capable of surprising me.

It was late June and as hot a day as you could wish for. The river had half-boiled in the heat and everyone in the city was half-cooked with their heads full of half-baked ideas, among which I count my own notions. Julien had bathed that morning to alleviate the heat somewhat, then gone back to bed, overcome by the temperature and a lassitude that laid him prone on the white sheet, his bare skin hardly a shade darker than the fabric and his hair, blonder than ever with sun-streaks, silver-gold on the pillow.

I had been trying to read while he slept until I paused between chapters and looked at him. After that reckless glance I could not concentrate on the regular progression of paragraphs; my thoughts were too caught up in the spectacle of him, the beauty he possesses that I can never quite forget, but which I often neglect to appreciate in all its splendor. I wanted him that morning so fiercely that I had to set my book aside and join him in nudity, which was a much more sensible mode of dress for the weather in any case.

He did not wake until I sat beside him on the bed and kissed the back of his thigh lightly. That startled him out of his dream, and he asked, "What are you doing?" in a sleepy voice.

"Admiring you," I said, amused at his unfocused tone.

"Oh." He yawned. "I was sleeping."

I ran my hand across the small of his back and made him sigh. "I know. Shall I let you go back to sleep?"

"You needn't."

"All right." I kissed him where my fingers had just touched, down the line of his spine.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, turning his head as though he could see me.

"Let me, _chéri_?" I nuzzled the curve of his buttock, and he laughed incredulously.

"Let you what?"

"Let me make love to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Shh. Let me show you," I said, trying to sound soothing, trying not to be too specific. But when I put my hand on his thigh to ease his legs apart, he was reluctant.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing."

I bit my lip. "Let me show you?"

"Tell me."

"It sounds worse than it is."

"That's as it may be. Tell me. Please."

I sighed. "Trust me, love. Please?" He hesitated, then made a small, uncomfortable noise and relaxed against the pillow, letting me spread his legs a little wider. "Thank you."

When I resumed my earlier attentions and nibbled on the smooth skin of his buttock, he gasped. "Audric --"

"Hmm?"

"That tickles."

"Oh." I sat up a bit and began rubbing the small of his back as if I were giving him a massage, trying to soothe him into letting me carry on. "Is that a little better?"

"Not really. Tell me what you're going to do."

" _Mon amour,_ trust me. Give me three minutes, and if you don't like it, I'll leave you be."

He didn't answer immediately. "If you insist."

"It won't hurt. I promise you that."

"All right," he said eventually. I alternated light caresses and kisses on the silky, pale skin of his lower back, moving gradually lower until he gasped at a particularly intimate touch. I rubbed his back gently, afraid he would tense again and the touches would turn ticklish while I was attempting to give him an exceedingly intimate kiss. He said, "Audric," again, and this time he was not chiding me. I felt his muscles relax under my hands and under my tongue. A sighing request was not a request to stop, for he could have attained that goal by simply moving away.

That seemed to be the last thing he was going to do at the moment. He arched into the touch and I heard his breath catch. If I had not been busy, I would have laughed for joy, then. It is so sweet and rare to see him at all abandoned. He said my name again, breathlessly, half-muffled in the pillow, and reached for my hand. I clasped his fingers, treasuring the touch almost as much as the sound of his voice. He is almost never willing to give voice to pleasure, but he was not accustomed to or prepared for what I was doing. 

"God, please," he said, and surely he was not aware of having said it, for he does not say such things. He sounded as though he would have liked to say more, but when he tried to go on all he could manage was a long breath, half-sigh, half-moan, and another cry, less like a word and more primal than any sound I would have thought my dignified, handsome love would make. I felt him shiver and push against the bed before he relaxed entirely.

I gave him another soft kiss and sat up, grinning at him though he had his face buried in the pillow and could not have seen my expression. " _Je t'aime,_ " I said, not sure whether he could hear me.

"Mmh," he said, which made me grin more. I ran my hand down his back.

"You are so lovely," I said to him, hoping that for once he was too tired or distracted to object to the compliment.

"What -- I -- come here?" he turned onto his side and held his arms out to me, asking for an embrace.

I lay beside him and held him close, disregarding the fact that he was rather a mess and I was rather aroused. I kissed his cheek. "Are you all right?"

"I think so." He touched my face with gentle fingers as if he had somehow forgotten what I looked like. His eyes were wide with something like confusion. "Why did you do that?"

I blushed and looked away from him, afraid he was disgusted, afraid against all the evidence that he had not liked it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." He shook my shoulder. "Talk to me."

"Because I thought you would enjoy it, and because you were too beautiful, asleep, and I couldn't ignore you."

He looked at me for another moment, then kissed me. I had not been expecting him to do that, but I could not protest, not with his fingers tangling in my hair and my breath catching. "God, Audric," he said softly afterward. "That was --" he blushed.

I touched his hair and realized that my hand was shaking a little. "I hoped it would be all right." He nodded and buried his face in my shoulder. We held each other for some time in silence before he stirred, as though he had fallen asleep and woken up again. "Good morning," I said softly.

"We should get out of bed before it's afternoon."

I bit my lip. That was entirely true, and perfectly reasonable, but I did not want to let him go. "Yes, we should."

He let me go and gave my shoulder a little push so that I would lie back, then kissed me again, not at all in the manner of someone who wants to get out of bed. I chuckled, and he blinked at me and asked, "What?"

"You're not encouraging me to get on with my studies," I said mildly.

"Aren't I?" He sat up and moved so that he was straddling me, sitting over but not exactly on my stomach.

I laughed and ran my hand down his side, admiring the contours of his body. "No. Not at all."

He gave me a considering look, but his eyes were sparkling. "Shall I leave you alone, then?"

The best answer to that was to caress his thigh. "Don't do that."

"Mm. All right." He leaned down to kiss me again. "Would you --" And he blushed, interrupting himself.

"What?" I tried to keep all the teasing out of my tone.

"I can't reach it, from here." It took me a moment to believe that what I wanted to hear was what I had heard. When I reached my conclusion, I fumbled under the bed and presented him with the bottle of oil. He took it, his cheeks still red with embarrassment.

I bit my lip. "Will you -- may I --?" So many restrictions between us, things I could not say to him, things I could not bear to hear him say. We had not made a list of the rules; we never discussed them, and yet they were there, holding us apart even when we were as close as we could be. I could not ask to make love to him; I could not have borne to hear him say he was in love with someone else. He ignored me when I spoke of peace and progress, and I did my best to ignore him when he spoke of battles.

And yet, even in the silence, we could negotiate some things. He kissed me again and then sat back, not entirely looking at me in his moment of indecision. I felt sure that he knew what I would have asked if he permitted the question. He gave me back the bottle, biting his lip as he did it as if I would refuse the gift or the question it represented. I wet my fingers with the oil and smiled at him, though he did not entirely smile back. He did not look at me even as I caressed him until I said, "Julien," softly.

He glanced at me, startled, as though he had forgotten I was there or forgotten that I had my fingers inside him. "What?"

"It's all right," I said, still smiling though he was oddly solemn. "You needn't look so worried."

"I'm not worried." He took a shuddering breath. "I --"

"What?"

"I don't know, really." He looked away again, toward the door. I had the dizzying feeling that I had never met him before, this beautiful man sitting on my chest who was reluctantly allowing me to stroke him. He showed few signs of enjoying the process, and fewer signs that he was thinking of anything to do with me.

I stopped and pulled my hands away. He sighed. I said, "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" He looked at me then, and he was Julien again, not an anonymous, impossibly handsome boy.

Perhaps because it was Julien, I could not resume what I had been doing. My hands shook at the thought. "I don't mean to ask you for something you don't want."

He frowned. "Audric, I wouldn't -- what gives you the idea I don't want it?"

I blushed. "You hardly even look like you're awake, let alone enjoying this -- I'm sorry, you can get up. I'll leave you alone."

"What on earth is wrong with you?" He blinked at me another moment, then kissed me with every sign of passion that he had been lacking a minute earlier, but it was too late. I could not avoid the vertiginous fear that he was unhappy, even though he said, "Damn it, don't stop now."

"Yes, but --" I couldn't explain the sickening feeling that I had coerced him into tolerating this from me, the cold sensation in my stomach that was my suspicion that he did not want it, that he did not want me.

"When I want you not to do something, I won't encourage you to do it, all right?" He shook his head impatiently. "God's sake, Audric, I know better than to tease you if I don't want anything."

I looked away from him, which was rather difficult at that point, but also necessary if I was going to keep my composure. I could not go on with it, not then. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Don't be vexing. Just --"

I covered my face with my relatively clean hand. I wanted to hide from him, to hide the fact that I wanted him for anything less pure than friendship, for anything more carnal than adoration. I wanted to forget the taste of him that lingered on my tongue. There were no words to explain my sudden conviction that he was allowing me to touch him as a bored and exhausted wife might permit her husband liberties. There was no logic in my conclusion that he did not want me, but I could not dismiss it. "I'm sorry, I said."

"What do I have to do to make you realize that I want something from you? How much more obvious could I possibly be?" He shivered. "Why is this so difficult to understand? Do you want me to tell you to stop?" He pulled my hand away from my face. "Please. Don't do this, not now."

I still couldn't meet his eyes. His words did not comfort me, for they were only logical. If he was willing to permit something he did not want to please me, he might well protest if I stopped halfway, for that was pleasing to neither of us. "I'm sorry."

"Fine." He got up, though he was shuddering with cold and emotion. "If you didn't want anything, you could have said so earlier."

I sat up and reached out to him as a child tries to catch a sunbeam when it is obscured by the movement of clouds. "Please --" Although the day was warm, I was cold in his sudden absence.

He turned back, his expression as close to furious as I had seen him in quite some time. "What? You don't want to make love, you don't want to do anything else, you don't want me, you want to torture me and then give up -- what do you want now?"

I looked at the sheets rather than at him. "I didn't mean to torture you. Come back to bed. Please?" My earlier desire had faded to a dull ache and a hopeless need to hold him.

"Why?"

"I didn't mean to make you angry. I'm sorry." I shivered.

"You're always sorry afterward." He turned away. "I don't think that's a reason to let you torment me."

"I never meant to torment you." I got up, though my knees shook, and embraced him from behind, kissing his shoulder, which had tensed considerably in the last few minutes. "Don't be angry with me."

"Don't be an idiot. If you don't want anything, say so."

"I do want you." I ran my hand down his back; I was not sure exactly how I meant it, but I knew he would respond to that touch.

He pulled away from me and turned to face me, his cheeks red again. "You clearly don't, or you wouldn't have balked so."

I blinked at him, confused. "I thought you didn't want anything."

"I did, then. I don't now." He picked up a shirt from the floor and put it on with swift, irritated movements.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I sighed, still wondering what he had actually wanted, and when he had wanted it or stopped wanting it. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." He picked up another shirt and tossed it to me. "Get dressed, would you, you look foolish."

I felt myself blush at that and the truth in it. I know I am plain and weak beside him, though I do not often think on it. On the worst days, I am not sure why he would want to look at me. I know perfectly well how easily he could find another, more handsome, more courageous lover. When he is angry, I fear that he will come to a sudden realization that he could find someone better suited to him than I, and I will do almost anything to convince him to forgive me. I sat on the bed and pulled on the shirt. "Let me make it up to you, _chéri._ "

"Not now."

"But --" I picked at the top sheet and did not look at him for fear he would chide me again for acting the buffoon. "I doubt you'll be able to concentrate."

"Whose fault is that?" He glared at me. "I hate it when you do this."

"Let me make amends," I said again, softly. I needed his approval however I could acquire it, even if all he did was cease to fume at me.

"You didn't want me five minutes ago."

"Yes, I did." I offered him a hand, palm up, as petitioners beseech something higher than themselves for some favor. "I wasn't sure you wanted anything. And now I'm sure." All I was sure of was that he had wanted something, not whether he still did nor whether I could convince him to want it again, but there was enough truth in what I said to serve my purpose and hold to my many vows never to lie to him.

He sat beside me and embraced me, giving me a kiss that was equal parts desire and anger. "Are you?" That was the reassurance I had needed. There was an overwhelming passion in him that infected me. 

I shuddered in his arms and felt that passion warm me as though he had breathed new life into me and into my desire for him. "Yes," I said, breathless, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"If you're going to damned well torment me again --"

I kissed his neck, wanting to soothe him, afraid that he would want to stop just as I felt safe wanting him again. "No. I wouldn't."

He pushed me away, and I fell back on the bed, surprised at him. He took off his shirt and threw it onto the floor. He was still angry, I could see that, and feel it in the hasty, sharp tugs he used to unbutton the shirt I'd put on at his behest. But his anger did not frighten me anymore, for he had not given up on me. "Don't tease me."

"I couldn't," I said, and surely he could hear the truth in the hoarseness of my voice and see it in me, for I was shivering and hard again.

He caught at my wrist, then laced our fingers together, pinning my hand to the pillow as if I had any desire to escape from him. He bent to kiss me again until we both gasped for breath. "I love you," he said, as if it were an accusation.

"And I you. Please --"

He straddled me as he had before, but this time he completed the motion. I cried out in desire, mad with the slick heat of his body and the desperation of the moment. He put his hand over my mouth and said, "Be careful," an odd chastisement, delivered in a low voice, as though he was not doing everything in his power to drive me out of my mind.

"I'm sorry," I managed, once I had closed my eyes and could only feel him, rather than see him over me, breathtaking and beloved.

"Don't -- damned well -- be sorry." He squeezed my fingers. "Don't you dare be sorry for this."

I reached up and touched his hair for a moment, marveling at him, at the fact that this impassioned, wonderful boy might want me, but I had to pull my hand back and cover my mouth lest I make another ill-advised noise. "Oh, Julien," was all I could say, that and, "I love you."

He let my hand go and I took hold of his hip, as if he needed or could have borne more encouragement than he had already had. He braced himself against the bed and against my shoulder. "Ah, Audric," he said, in a voice unlike his own, and then, "Oh --" as though he surprised himself with the speed and force of his own passion as much as he had surprised me.

I was lost in the madness of the moment and the boneless exhaustion of my recovery from it for long enough that by the time I could open my eyes again, it was only in time to have him kiss my cheek, say, "I -- I'm sorry," and get out of bed.

If I had had any faith in my ability to stand up at that moment, I would have leapt out of bed and embraced him. As it was, I said, "Julien, that was wonderful," and stayed flat on my back.

"Perhaps." He picked up the shirt he had cast aside in his earlier fury and gave it a rueful look.

"It's too hot to get dressed," I said softly. "Come back to bed."

"It's too hot to embrace you," he said and gave me a wistful look. I almost laughed at that; I knew I was a terrible mess, and I did not have the energy to get up and bathe.

"Somehow I doubt that. Please?"

He made a half-sound, that brief puff of air that is neither a laugh nor a snort, and lay beside me again. "I need another bath."

"Perhaps later," I said, and kissed his cheek.

"I need one now, though."

I tugged him into a too warm, too sticky embrace that was perfectly comfortable for all of its faults. "Not just now. You'd fall asleep."

"Possibly."

"Fall asleep with me?"

He nuzzled my shoulder. "All right."

"I adore you," I murmured into his hair.

He sighed contentedly. "And I you."

"Thank you."

"For what?" He blinked at me sleepily.

"All of that." There was no way to express the depth of my gratitude to him for loving me, for permitting me to love him, for letting me desire him and sometimes, sometimes desiring me. Or, if there was a way, I could not find it in his arms, on the edge of falling asleep.

"You're welcome." He sounded bemused or half-asleep, or both. I yawned and let myself drift off to sleep while all was well in the world.


	9. Bonding: September, 1827

Autumn is beginning to settle on Paris. The days are still warm, but the evening wind has the bite of September that promises colder days to come. In a small cafe, six young men end their meeting around ten-thirty. Two of them say their goodbyes and walk off together, murmuring to each other. Another pair stays a few minutes longer and finishes a tangential conversation. They leave arm-in-arm. The last two watch them go, then glance at each other and laugh. "Our friends are so discreet," Daniel Feuilly says, grinning.

Aimery Courfeyrac grins, and leans back in his seat, stretching. "Quite," he agrees lazily. "I envy their restraint. Don't you?"

Feuilly shakes his head. "They're restrained? I would hate to see them less so."

"I was being facetious." Courfeyrac glances at him, and smiles a bit. "I'm sorry."

Feuilly shrugs. "It's -- it's all right, I suppose. Shall we go?"

Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow. "Hand in hand?" he inquires wryly.

"Ah --" Feuilly grins at him. "Not in public, mon chéri. I have some dignity."

Courfeyrac blinks at the endearment, and his expression softens. "Ah. Well."

Feuilly shakes his head. "Honestly, you fellows. I was joking."

Courfeyrac grins, though the look of gentleness doesn't leave his eyes. "Pity."

"I --" Feuilly blinks at him a moment, then looks away. "I suppose so."

"Sorry," Courfeyrac murmurs. "Sorry, brother." He rakes a hand through his hair, absent-mindedly.

Feuilly reaches over and thumps his shoulder. "It's all right." He pushes his chair back and stands. "Walk with me a bit?"

Courfeyrac stretches again, smothering a yawn, and starts to climb to his feet. "If you like."

"It's on your way, more or less."

"True," grinning again.

"I would be glad of the company." Feuilly walks toward the door.

Courfeyrac yawns again, and follows. "All right."

For a few minutes, Feuilly walks without making any further comment, then, "Do you ever feel lonely, around them?"

"Hmm." Courfeyrac tucks his hands in his pockets. "I don't know. A little."

"Ah." Feuilly glances at him.

"Why?"

Feuilly shrugs. "Hard to watch them being so damned happy, sometimes."

Courfeyrac glances over, then. "I see."

"It's just -- I don't think I've ever been that happy." Feuilly kicks a pebble. "Or that I ever will be."

"Oh, come now! Give yourself time, mon ami."

"Time for what?" Feuilly glances at him. "Time to establish myself in my profession? I don't have your advantages, nor your free time -- mon frère. And I don't -- I don't have your charm. If I am ever going to be happy, I will be happy by myself."

Courfeyrac frees a hand to touch his arm lightly. "I don't believe that."

"No?"

"No," cheerfully. "I think you have your own charm in great measure. And you wouldn't want mine; it gets me in the damnedest scrapes..."

Feuilly snorts. "I'm sure it does. Girls trailing after you, boys dragging you off -- your life is difficult, I'm sure."

"It's when they start to trip over each other that I'm in trouble. --But you don't do yourself justice."

"'course I do."

"Bah. There's a girl somewhere who's pining after you at this very moment. I'd bet on it." Courfeyrac grins at him.

"Indeed." Feuilly pats his pocket. "She lives in the next house over, and she's seen that I occasionally have a sou to spare. If I ever had a franc, she might let me requite her longing, but not for free."

Courfeyrac pokes him. "That's just what I mean. No self-confidence. If I were to tell a certain young lady of my, er, acquaintance all about you--"

Feuilly pokes him back. "I don't want that."

Courfeyrac tilts his head, serious again. "What _do_ you want?"

"More than company for a night."

"And if my hypothetical acquaintance should fall desperately in love with you, and beg you to carry her off and marry her?"

Feuilly chuckles. "Then I'd be surprised."

"I wouldn't." Courfeyrac grins again. "Which is why I have not yet introduced you to any of my female acquaintances."

Feuilly shakes his head. "I doubt that I could manage to keep their attention for more than a moment, with you around."

Courfeyrac chuckles. "I don't."

"Then it is you who have too little confidence."

"No, not really," cheerfully.

"Aimery --" Feuilly pauses a moment.

Courfeyrac looks at him, quizzical.

Feuilly shakes his head. "I -- never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Courfeyrac reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder, briefly.

Feuilly frowns. "You're entirely too charming."

"Am I?" wryly.

"Yes. You are." Feuilly turns away.

Silence for a moment. "I'm sorry." 

Feuilly shakes his head, again, and turns the corner.

Courfeyrac sighs, almost inaudibly, and trails along after him.

Feuilly lives halfway down this block, in a little room at the top of a boarding house. He pauses outside the ground-level door. "Would you come in?"

Courfeyrac blinks once. "All right."

"You can go, if you'd rather," diffidently.

"Not at all," smiling at him. "I've nowhere better to be."

"All right." Feuilly goes in. Courfeyrac follows, treading a little cautiously.

Five staircases later, Feuilly unlocks the door to his flat, breathing a little hard. "Here we are."

"Must be quite a view," Courfeyrac ventures.

"The sunrise is spectacular, yes. I --" Feuilly breaks off and walks in.

Courfeyrac ducks through the doorway after him. "Yes?"

"Shut the door?" The room is dark, lit only by light from the street below, and it is bare. The only decorations are sketches, pinned to the plastered walls. In the darkness, they blur to unintelligibility. Glancing around curiously, Courfeyrac complies.

Feuilly pauses just inside, watching him, then sighs. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes the distance between them and kisses Courfeyrac's cheek.

Courfeyrac blinks, catches hold of his shoulder and returns the kiss, reflexively. Then, in bemusement, "Daniel...?"

"I'm sorry." Feuilly looks away.

"You needn't be," softly.

"I am. I shouldn't."

Courfeyrac reaches out to touch his hair lightly. "Why not?"

"I don't think I want -- everything." He frowns. "I mean -- it was all so _strange,_ unreal, when they -- you --" he shudders. "That was nothing I would have wanted, except that I wanted the strength of knowing all of you as brothers."

This time it is Courfeyrac's turn to look away. "I'm sorry. I--"

"You did not propose it." Feuilly touches his cheek. "And I don't know, now, if I would have been more -- more enthusiastic, if it had not been so very impersonal."

"Daniel--" Courfeyrac begins, and hesitates.

Feuilly backs away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't presume that you want anything of me. I -- I'm sure you don't. Goodnight."

"Don't-- please. It isn't that."

"I'm sorry."

"Mon frère." Courfeyrac extends a hand toward him. "If that's what you want, I would be -- more than willing. If it isn't, you can say so. You're not going to offend me, either way."

Feuilly looks at the floor. "You needn't."

Courfeyrac grins. "I know I needn't. Nor should you feel compelled to offer." And, sobering: "Daniel, I-- I would like to. But not if it would make you uncomfortable."

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. --Come here?"

Feuilly hesitates a moment, then goes a step closer.

"It's all _right_ ," Courfeyrac says again, and embraces him, tightly but fraternally.

Feuilly sighs. "I shouldn't have proposed it."

"It's all right, I tell you. I'm not offended, I don't think less of you, and I shan't bring it up again unless you want me to."

"I --" Feuilly returns the embrace. "I don't know what I want."

Courfeyrac pats his shoulder. "All right."

Feuilly lets him go, reluctantly, after a few minutes.

Courfeyrac keeps his hands lightly on Feuilly's shoulders. "Don't worry about it, mon ami."

Feuilly looks at him for a moment, then embraces him again.

Courfeyrac hugs him tightly, ruffling his hair a bit.

"I don't know," softly.

"You don't have to know."

Feuilly half-smiles. "Why do you have to be so charming?"

Courfeyrac shrugs, lightly. "I don't know. It just seems to happen."

Feuilly chuckles. "Unfair."

"Sorry," making a token effort to be suitably contrite.

Feuilly looks at him a moment, then kisses him.

Courfeyrac catches his breath, and then returns the kiss, with affection and concentration.

After a few moments, Feuilly breaks it. "Good God, Aimery," breathlessly.

A dazed blink. "Yes?"

"You -- God."

Courfeyrac brushes Feuilly's hair away from his face, and then pushes back his own. "What?"

"I -- should have asked you this weeks ago," teasing.

"D'you think so?"

"Yes." Feuilly kisses him again.

"Oh," Courfeyrac murmurs, and acquiesces cheerfully.


	10. Warmth (Feuilly): December, 1827

They are all charming boys, in their own way. They can sit and talk for hours about nothing with great enthusiasm, for they are in love with each other. That much would be evident to any observer careful enough to see the way that they watch one another, the politeness that they grant to their fellows, somewhat incongruous in boys of their age. It is not only the couples -- Audric, who gazes at Julien as though he were a masterfully executed painting, looks at the others with only slightly less reverence. Jehan and Bossuet, who share smiles and the quiet chuckles of lovers with their own language, will both make similar jokes with Audric, and sometimes with Aimery. I sometimes suspect that I am in love with them -- not in the manner of Audric, who welcomes them with open arms, nor in the reserved but certain way that Julien has. I love them as my brothers, not as lovers. Bossuet's grin is infectious, but it makes me laugh; it does not make me want to kiss him. I want to be with them, this little family of dreamers who are so close to each other, and who, for reasons of their own, consider me a worthy addition to their ranks. 

The rite of passage was uncomfortable. I only half-understood it until it was done, and then I saw what it could have been, if I were truly the sort of brother they wanted. It should have been a chance to share pleasure, to partake of something forbidden. It was not pleasurable -- I was frightened, and it was, on the whole, a distressing process. I thought, afterward, that such acts were probably illegal in order to keep people from trying them who might be as discomfited as I was.

Though the induction itself was unpleasant, I enjoyed having the company of friends in the night. I have little chance to spent time with young women who would be at all interested in me, romantically, and now that I have brothers, I will have less time. It was something of a novelty to sleep in someone's arms. I would not mind doing that again, but they all have their lovers, except for Aimery. He is as much a part of this mad society as any of us, perhaps more so than I am, for he has more ties of love and desire to the others than I. I love him best, and I loved him from the start. It was his company that convinced me to stay, the night that I first encountered them, before I had heard any of them talking with lyric conviction about important things. He charmed me as thoroughly as he captures the heart of any girl -- which is not to say that I desire him in precisely that fashion.

I want to be with him, to talk with him into the small hours of the night, to joke with him and learn what makes him happy. It is his presence that keeps me from finding a mistress; no girl would look twice at me, with my shabby clothes and unremarkable appearance, when she could flirt with Aimery instead. And yet I would not forgo his company for any girl in the city. He makes my heart light on the darkest days. Sometimes, when he is not otherwise occupied, he invites me home with him, with the supreme confidence of someone who knows that he is thoroughly charming. I go with him as often as he asks me, and I would spend more nights with him if he were not so in demand.

We do not make love on those nights. We talk until all hours in his bed, often in each other's arms. It is terribly comfortable to lie like that with him, as if we really were lovers. Some people might say that we are, I suppose. It would provide explanations for a great deal that goes unexplained between us. I should not enjoy embracing him; if we were lovers, there would be no reason why we should not behave as we do. We kiss each other in a more-than-brotherly way, for the company -- and the pleasure -- of it. Aimery could kiss any of twenty people on a given night, and yet he often chooses to lie almost chastely by my side. It is a great compliment, and proof that he cares for me. 

I have only touched him intimately twice; once in the initiation, and once not long after we began sleeping together. I doubt that he enjoyed either instance particularly, and I am sure that he understood as well as I do that I took no pleasure in the act. I have apologized for that lack at some length. Doubtless, he would rather that I could please him as his other lovers do, without hesitating, without a sense of revulsion, but he does not ask it of me, and I lack the courage to offer.

I was not entirely sober the first time I allowed him to touch me. It had been perhaps a month that we had been sleeping together often, sharing kisses and often caresses that were not entirely innocent. We were unfair to each other, for I knew I could not complete what I began, and I did not want to accept anything from him that I could not return in kind. But one night I had had a little too much to drink, not enough to be out of my senses or anything like it, but enough to be incautious. Aimery was slightly less than his normal conscientious self, too, which compounded the danger. We were kissing, as we might have been on a more normal evening, and it was not that unusual for one or both of us to find that a little arousing. It was unusual and discomfiting for Aimery to put his hand on the erection that I ought not to have had, and to smile at me, saying, "Let me help you, Daniel."

I cannot blame my response on the wine; I had wanted something like what he offered for too long to refuse. I hesitated only a moment, then kissed him and let him do what he would. It was not as frightening as I remembered from the first time. After all, we had been a great deal more physically intimate in the weeks between my initiation and this fumbling than we had ever been beforehand. It was not as strange, knowing it was Aimery, knowing with absolute certainty that he would not hurt me, and he would not push me farther into this than I wanted to go. I was ashamed afterward, and turned away from him, saying that I should return the favor but that I could not. He kissed me and told me that it pleased him to please me. I did not quite know how to respond, and so I embraced him. We fell asleep not long afterward. 

In the morning, things were again as they had been. We did not speak of the night's follies until two nights later, for Aimery was busy the next night. He asked me if I was upset by what had happened, and I told him in all honesty that I was not. A few nights later, he made the same offer as before, and after a few moments I accepted. Afterward, I kissed him and apologized again.

"It's all right. Truly." He kissed my cheek.

"Yes, but it isn't." I could not meet his eyes for a moment. "I ought to do something for you."

He embraced me. "You do."

"No, I don't. I just waste your time. I should --"

"Daniel. _Je t'aime._ Of course you don't waste my time. If I didn't want to be here," he kissed my forehead, "then I wouldn't be here."

I sighed. "I suppose."

"You should know that by now." He gave me a kiss. "Goodnight, _mon frère_."

"Goodnight."

I have never asked him for any intimacy. He offers perhaps once a week, but it is no more that. It has not become the basis of our relationship to each other, nor would I want it to become any more important than it is. I still feel some guilt, as though I am taking advantage of him rather than benefitting from his generosity, but it is pleasant, and the longer it goes on, the more certain I am that if he did not want to do anything for me, he would not.


	11. Allowances (Joly): March, 1828

I would never have joined them, if not for Théo. I would never even have come back, after the first evening. Enjolras with his air of austerity, Courfeyrac with his dizzying charm, Combeferre with his too-intent gaze -- they intimidated me. I could hardly keep up with their conversations, their banter, their debates. The ideas, yes, the ideas were splendid, and I tried to give voice to my own opinions, but when their eyes were fixed on me my throat closed, and my hands started to shake, and then I would feel such a fool. 

Only Théo put me at ease, and made me feel as though I truly had something to contribute. It is hard to feel too ridiculous in the face of his cheerful self-deprecation, and when he smiles, nothing seems as terrible as it did a moment before. It was Théo who introduced me to these people; it was Théo who, effortlessly, stepped in when I faltered and helped me remember what I wanted to say; who steadied me whenever I was on the brink of disaster.

Nevertheless I was furious with him. "You could have warned me!"

"Chrétien, _mon ami_ \--"

"You should have said something-- my God--" The memory of Julien's hands on my naked skin, the awful intimacy of Audric's kisses, was still raw. "You should have warned me." 

"Forgive me." It was not until he caught at my hands that I realized I'd been flailing. "Forgive us, Chrétien. I promised them I wouldn't."

I pulled away from him. "Why _not_? So they could scare me out of my wits? God, is that all this is, playing pranks on the new boy? I thought we were all a bit old for that." 

" _No_." There was hurt in Théo's voice, vivid enough that it silenced me. "They wanted to be sure of you. It was the same for me, for all of us. I-- didn't realize you'd be so upset--"

"No, I'm sure you didn't mind nearly so much." That was spite, and Théo flinched from it, glancing away. 

"Daniel did," he said in a muted tone, "but he hasn't your..." 

"Prudery?"

"Sensibilities. I'm sorry, Chrétien."

I took a deep breath. "It's not your fault," I said, trying to believe it. "I just--"

He made as if to embrace me, and then stopped himself, as though afraid it would be salt in the wound. I did not want to be touched just then, but he looked so abashed and helpless that I went and put an arm around his shoulders. After a moment, he returned the gesture. "I _am_ sorry. I should have thought."

"I'll survive."

Théo laughed. I frowned. "I'm sorry," he said again. "You don't usually say things like that, is all."

At that I had to laugh, too. "I suppose not."

He stayed with me that night as he had done often enough before, except that this time we shared the bed. It was not very pleasant, but neither was it the agony of embarrassed discomfort that it had been with Audric and Julien. I was prepared now, and I knew that I could trust Théo. 

Afterward he kissed my forehead, and asked anxiously, "Are you all right?"

"More or less."

"I'll go," he offered. 

"No." Somehow I could not bear the thought of his leaving, to spend the rest of that night with his doting poet, who would certainly laugh me to scorn. "Stay. Stay here."

He looked surprised, but not, God bless him, troubled. "All right."

"Thank you." 

"Don't mention it, _mon ami_."

" _Mon frère_ ," I said after a moment; and Théo's face lit up as though I had given him the world, promised him his heart's desire. I could not help but feel that it was worth any price, to see him smile at me like that.

It was the memory of his smile that sustained me over the next week, helped me to screw up my courage, strengthened me for what was necessary. I spent a pitiful night with Feuilly, both of us awkward and wishing to be anywhere else; I endured an evening of Prouvaire's sullen company and resentful kisses, and thought that I was past the worst.

But there was still Courfeyrac, and it was with him that I lost my nerve finally. He was neither rude nor rough nor, as I had feared he would be, overly gallant; he was as courteous as anyone could be in such circumstances. And yet when he bent to kiss me, it was, all at once, too much. I tore free of him, turning away.

"Chrétien?" He seemed startled rather than affronted.

"I can't do this," I said through the tightness in my throat. "I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with you, but I can't do this."

After a moment Courfeyrac came and laid a firm hand on my shoulder. "Is it so difficult for you, then?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm sick of it, that's all." Suddenly the words came in a torrent. "No one gave me warning, and I-- I thought I could go through with it and I can't. I've failed your damn' test. I don't know what you do in such cases, take them out and shoot them--"

"Chrétien." He shook me a little, turned me to face him again. "Brother. Don't."

" _No_. I tell you I can't."

"It's all right. We needn't." He had been serious, but now he smiled at me. It is the honesty in that smile, I think, that wins so many hearts; it warmed me, reassured me, caught me back from the edge of hysteria. "If you aren't committed by now, I shouldn't think tonight would make a difference."

"I--" I could hardly speak. "Yes. I am. I swear."

"Shhh. I know." He took me in his arms as Théo would have done, steadying, fraternal, and held me while I got control of myself again. That gesture meant more to me than any intimacies, and said more than any words. 

"You won't tell them...?"

Courfeyrac let me go, smiling again, and this time I found myself able to smile back. "Of course not. It's nobody's business but yours and mine."

I let go a breath I hadn't known I was holding. "All right."

"Will you stay the night?" he asked, diffidently for Courfeyrac. "If I promise to behave myself?"

"I-- if you like."

"I would like that."

So we slept that night side by side in his bed, chaste as saints, and when morning came took leave of each other warmly. When I arrived at Musain in the evening, they all came to embrace me: Julien and Audric, Aimery and Daniel, Jehan with something akin to warmth in his eyes; and Théo last of all, murmuring in my ear, "All right, _mon ami_?" 

"Quite all right," I told him, and it was.


	12. Idyll (Enjolras): May, 1828

He walks beside me, quiet and steady in the morning sunlight, and it is no hardship to keep myself to his unhurried pace. Now and then we clasp hands for a moment as we go, for the simple joy of touch and companionship. The stones of the street are still damp from the night's rain, catching gleams from the pale sky.

It seems no time at all before the street becomes a road, and the houses recede into fields. A breeze runs through the long grass of the untended meadow with hardly a sound, but somewhere, not far off, a bird is singing ceaselessly.

Audric catches my arm. "Look."

"What?"

"Flowers, Julien."

And my breath catches involuntarily at the sight of them; stark and vivid blue against the faded green of the field, nodding gently in the breeze. He laughs, slipping an arm around my waist.

"Such a color," I say, trying to explain my reaction, the unexpected pang that went through me. But he only smiles.

"Blue as your eyes."

"Don't be absurd."

"Can't I be absurd? Just for today?"

I can't help but smile back; the day is so fine, the flowers are so blue, there is such love in his face. "I suppose so."

"Beloved," he breathes. He draws me aside into the meadow and down into the grass, hidden from anyone who might pass by, and kisses me. For a few moments there is nothing in all the world but the feel of him in my arms, the wind that moves over us, and the strengthening sun on my hair.


	13. Variations (Bahorel): July, 1828

I came but late to their discourses, but found the debaters enchanting. They had fought no battles in the beginning, only claimed the back room of a café and begun to fortify it with their presence, night after night. They went to no great lengths to make me feel at all welcome; it was even then something of a closed society, with its lovers and its standoffish friends. It was only a few months before they accepted me -- I suspect that my willingness to say aloud what they tended to speak in hushed voices endeared me to them. Once I had earned some measure of their trust, they decided to induct me into their fraternité. As Aimery said later, I was straightforward about everything: my ideology, my willingness to fight for it, and my affection for the male form. The latter did not inspire them to initiate me, but it can't have hurt. Audric explained it all to me in his earnest way, one evening, a little apart from the rest in case I should be offended or what have-you. All the rules, all the guidelines for building this brotherhood -- while behind us men were talking and laughing together, in love with each other and with their blazing ideals. Audric asked, when he had finished explaining, "Do you consent to this? Will you join us?" I kissed him for an answer, and heard Aimery laugh. 

The initiation was an odd thing, one of those traditions that is done the way it is because that is the way it has always been done -- no matter whether the ceremony is two years old or two hundred. It began with Julien. Audric was there, but only in an official capacity -- "To observe, mon ami," he told me, and explained that if I were ever to tell any governmental authority about this rite, it would be Julien's word and his against mine about what had happened, and who had been coerced. That would be a spectacle for the court indeed: fragile Julien and his sweet-faced flatmate, crying "Rape" and pointing to the libertine, the offender -- me. 

It may as well have been rape, though he consented. There was a set to Julien's jaw all through it, as though he were determined to enjoy it, or not to enjoy it, but either way his body was disobeying him. He offered no great intimacy but the touch of his pale hands, and would accept nothing more from me. He trusted me, and the brief pleasure signified that, but he did not want me as an intimate on the level of his Audric, who apparently took no great joy in his observations. I slept there afterward at their request, another unpleasantness that was obligated by ritual. 

The next night, Audric joined me in my bed. After the meeting, he asked me in an officious voice if I would prefer it if someone accompanied us. I said I'd rather not. I felt entirely confident in my ability to overwhelm him, if he were to break from his own tradition. He smiled and said that he agreed, and so we left together. I felt sure that Julien watched us go. Once we were there, embracing each other more comfortably than I had held his lover, he confessed to me that he took a certain vicarious pleasure in watching the ceremony the night before, such as it was. 

I had gathered as much; it would hardly support a lawsuit to go home with one's roommate's putative rapist. There was, then, a reason for the observer. I smiled at him and said, "I'm sure you enjoyed it." 

He blushed. "It -- I don't know." 

I kissed him. "This will be better, mon ami. I promise you that." 

It was. He was nowhere near as prudish as Julien; once past the initial trouble of precisely what he wanted, and precisely how he would manage to ask for it without giving me offense or embarrassing himself, he seemed nearly comfortable with me. Audric made no pretense of inexperience, which put me more at ease than Julien's diffidence had. I doubt that I would have had the confidence to do anything that required finesse with Julien, even if he had requested it, given his inability to relax. Audric's hands were gentle but practiced. When he spread his legs for me and asked me to make love to him -- those words, for he would not use anything coarser -- I could not refuse him. "Ah, _mon frère_ ," he sighed as we began. It was incongruous, disconcerting for a moment, before I remembered that that was the aim of the evening. We were not making love so much as making friends. 

_Fraternité_ aside, it was a pleasant evening. We did not spend a great deal of time in "making love," for I have never had a great deal of patience with the sort of care he expected. I took him aback for several moments before he understood my intent and responded in kind. He smiled at me afterward, warm and relaxed in my arms. "It is good to have you among us, Christophe. You are -- not entirely like the others." 

I kissed him. "I should hope not. If there's more than one of me, I don't want to meet him." 

He chuckled. "Perhaps not." 

"Is this what you wanted, then?" I touched his cheek. 

He bit his lip. "I suppose so. -- It was pleasant. Thank you." 

I smiled. "Good. I wanted it to be." We lay together in silence for a few moments. I asked something I would not have considered inquiring of Julien: "Is that it, then?" 

"What do you mean?" He stretched, then relaxed into my embrace. 

I ran my hand over his chest. "You really only -- make love -- with each of your brothers once?" 

Audric paused before he answered. "Not necessarily. But -- no, thank you." He kissed me. Few rejections have ever tasted so sweet. 

The night after that, Daniel came and sat with me near the end of the meeting, such as it was. It had devolved into a heated discussion of the various merits of Diderot's Letters on the Blind as compared to Montesquieu's Persian Letters and Voltaire's Letters on the English, for no better reason than that Bossuet was feeling argumentative and Julien took him up on the offer. No one had a copy of the works handy, so for once we were spared the interminable page-flipping, "A ha!" and pointing to a particular passage, "See? I told you so," in which some people so delight. The lack of quotations also made the argument and therefore the meeting shorter than it might have been. After Julien left, no doubt making a mental note to bring Montesquieu with him every night thereafter, Daniel put a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Ought to get it over with, _n'est-ce pas_?" 

I grinned at him, which made him blink. "Don't sound so enthusiastic, _mon ami_. Someone might think you were proposing something interesting." 

"I didn't think I was." He stood up, and so did I. 

"Ah, then we disagree." I gave him a mock bow. "Let us go home and check our references to see which one of us is correct." 

Daniel smiled. "Better your flat than mine, I think. There are rats and too many neighbors." 

"Good enough." 

We walked together, for I don't live far enough from that café to warrant a fiacre. Daniel was quiet, and I did not disturb his reverie until we had arrived, and stood in my room with a candle burning. He was frowning a little and looking at my floor rather than at me. "You seem excited," I said, mildly enough that he would know I was teasing him. 

He shrugged. "I'm not, particularly. If it were not for the rules of this society --" he looked up at me, and half-smiled "-- I would not share your bed." 

"I see. All in the name of duty, then?" I touched his shoulder. 

He shrugged again, then embraced me. "I suppose. I would rather not be obligated to this, but one does what one must." 

I kissed his forehead. "Is it so terrible, then?" 

"It is nothing I would have chosen." He kissed me, then said, "You're very tall." 

I chuckled. "If you're used to grisettes, I suppose I would be." 

Daniel blushed. "No, I'm not, particularly. I don't have a mistress. I have a, um, friend." 

"Do you?" 

"Well, yes, when he's not busy." 

"Really." I started unbuttoning his waistcoat; he began to return the favor. "Do I know this fellow, then?" 

He looked at my buttons carefully. "I believe you've met Aimery." 

I laughed. "Yes, I've met him. Charming fellow. And you're his lover?" 

"Not entirely. Sort of. Yes?" 

"You could be much worse off. -- Daniel, _mon frère_?" 

"Yes?" 

"Kiss me." 

He was, on the whole, a diffident lover, not comfortable either touching me or being touched. He knew well enough what to do, and perhaps he had some practice at it beyond the inductions of his various friends, but like Julien, he took little pleasure in it beyond the physical release. It was not love, and it was not lust. It was, perhaps, what it was intended to be: a peculiar intimacy, embarrassing and sticky, that obviated the need to be embarrassed around one's friends and brothers. I have never been inclined to embarrassment, but Daniel clearly was. In those few moments, he had seen me brutish and vulnerable, arguably at my worst. He had little to fear from me after that. 

We lay together afterward, next to each other rather than in each other's arms. He explained the intricacies of our friends' relationships. Some I already knew -- that Bossuet and Jehan might as well have shared a flat, for the amount of time they spent in each other's beds; that Julien and Audric had been lovers for years; that Chrétien had a mistress and was not involved with any of his brothers. But I had not realized that Audric shared a bed with Aimery at times, nor that Daniel lived with Aimery, on the nights when he was not otherwise occupied. 

"It's all damnably complicated," I said, when he finished a stammering explanation of how he had begun sleeping with Aimery. 

"I suppose so. It's only friendship. Or possibly it's something else." He shifted a little and shrugged. 

"I'm not entirely sure, yet. I wonder how it will all settle, with another person in the mix." I prodded his shoulder gently. "Would you advise me to find a girl?" 

"How should I know?" Daniel thought a moment. "You're going to scare the wits out of Chrétien, but then everyone does." 

I chuckled. "Monsieur is not the sort of person I would associate with in that manner. And the rest?" 

"Everyone's self-sufficient, or not, I suppose." 

"Ah, well. It could be worse." 

Daniel poked my arm. "Yes. We could be expected to do this more often." 

"Mm. Remind me not to proposition you, then." 

"I shall. Goodnight." 

"Goodnight." 

No one approached me the night after that; Chrétien was not there, and the rest went off, chattering and giggling to their beloveds, without a thought for their lonely brother. I did not try to stop them. I hadn't the authority to do that, and I knew they were all obligated to visit me, sooner or later, on their own time and in their own way. 

All through the meeting on the night Jehan went home with me, he sat so close to Bossuet that he might as well have been on his lover's lap. They were sharing a bottle of wine in the corner, quiet in the main discussion -- the merits of Rousseau's reactions to censorship as opposed to his contemporaries' -- but they whispered to each other in the manner of children or sweethearts who don't care that they vex their fellows. At inappropriate times, they would laugh aloud, then glance at whomever had been speaking of something important, and whisper to each other again. The waitress nearly caught them kissing, except that Aimery faked a sneeze and drew her attention. Julien rapped on the table when she'd gone, and would have stood -- probably intending to tell them off -- but Audric put a hand on his shoulder and murmured something in his ear. He sat back down. It was the condemned poet's last meal with his beloved, the sacrifice's moments of glory before fate struck him down. 

At the end of the evening, they walked to my table together, Jehan's arm around Bossuet's waist. I'd been sitting with Aimery, who rolled his eyes at them and said, "You are going to start a fight in here if you keep on like this. Fratricide, _mes amis_ , is an ugly thing." 

Jehan giggled and kissed Bossuet. He was more than a little drunk, in the acclaimed fashion of the king-for-a-day who knows his death approaches. His Eagle was not much steadier. They were both lucky that there were no classes in the morning. "We'll be good tomorrow. Probably." Jehan leaned on Bossuet's shoulder. "It's just I was scared, and Théo was keeping my spirits up." 

I said, "Bottoms up," and Jehan blushed. 

Bossuet put a hand on my shoulder, and said to me in what was meant to be a conspiratorial whisper, "You be nice to him, or I'll -- I'll -- you'll pay." 

Aimery laughed. "I'm sure he would. You'd trip over your own feet and punch yourself in the nose, Bossuet, even if you were sober, which you aren't." 

I shook my head. "I'll be kind. No fear." 

Bossuet nodded and stood up again to bestow a lingering kiss on Jehan. "And you be careful. I ought to come with you, make sure nothing happens." 

I shrugged. "If you like." 

Jehan looked from Bossuet to me and bit his lip. "It'll be all right. I think." 

I smiled in relief. If I'd had to deal with them both in the state they were in, I would have had no patience. "All right, then. Come home with me, Jehan?" 

He kissed Bossuet again, then took my hand as if he were really as young as he seemed. "Goodnight, _mon amour, mon adoré_. Goodnight, Aimé." 

Aimery said, "Goodnight, you two," and grinned at us. 

Bossuet sighed. "Goodnight, _mon coeur_." 

As Jehan and I left the café, I let his hand go in order to remind myself that he was my brother and my equal, not a lost, drunk child. He chattered to me about gods and prophets all the way home, and chortled over the incestuous couplings of Olympians as though he were first discovering them. I did not try to encourage him, but he took my mumbled "Mm-hm"s as if they were valuable contributions and kept up both ends of the conversation quite well until we reached my flat. 

He looked around in the dim light of well past dusk. "You have a nice room," he said, as if it mattered what the room was like. 

"Thank you, Jehan." I locked the door behind us and waited for him to do something. 

He stood in the middle of the room looking out the window for several minutes, then shook himself a little. "I should drink some water, I think. I'm rather thirsty." 

I smiled, though he was looking away from me and couldn't see. "There's a pitcher on the table by the bed, and a glass that probably isn't too dirty." 

"All right." He sat on the edge of my bed and fetched himself a glass of water. He looked delicate, sitting there, like something out of a painting: dark, curled hair and smooth hands, with his cravat askew courtesy of his lover, but perhaps the artist was slightly colorblind, for his waistcoat was a horrid shade of green that made the cravat look sickly mustard-yellow. He was a rather small person, and he had a tendency to slouch, which made him look even smaller. I sat down beside him when he set down the water-glass. For a few moments, I felt a twinge of guilt, and I could understand why Bossuet had been posturing at me. Jehan was so very young and beautiful, and I could certainly hurt him if I were not careful. I sighed. He blinked at me, looking distressingly innocent. "What's wrong, Christophe?" 

"You don't have to do this," I said, though I would rather have made love to him than sent him home. "You can sleep here, and I'll tell them we did what we were supposed to do." 

Jehan blinked again and bit his lip, then shifted sideways so that he was on my lap. "I want to -- well, mostly." He kissed me and fidgetted a little, thereby destroying the illusion of his virginity and my resolve to keep my hands off him in one fell swoop. 

"Jehan," I protested, "not tonight." I didn't push him away; I was afraid that if I tried he would end up on the floor. 

"Why not?" He wriggled again, and I gritted my teeth. 

"You're drunk, _mon ami_ , and it wouldn't be -- properly binding. Stop that." 

He gave me a petulant look that was first cousin to a pout and got up. "I'm not that drunk." His lower lip had the wobbling quality I generally associate with a mistress who wants something. 

"All right, you're not drunk." I shrugged. "I'm not particularly in the mood." 

Jehan gave my trousers a pointed look. "Yes, you are." 

"No," I lied, "I'm not. Come to bed, _mon petit_. We can make pretty promises just as well in the morning." He frowned at me for a moment, then started undressing. I had to look away to preserve the fragile prevarication; he knew perfectly well that I wanted him. But I didn't want him with false courage, nor did I want him falling asleep in the middle of things. I started undressing to distract myself from the spectacle of Jehan in a state of deshabille. "Have another glass of water," I suggested. 

"Oui, papa," he said, giving me a most adolescent look. 

I shook my head. "Come to bed when you're ready." I pushed back the covers. It was July, and too warm for sheets, too warm to do anything but sleep in the nude, but I left my shirt on for the sake of his sensibilities. 

He had no such pretensions of dignity. When he had had his water, he climbed into bed and lay half on top of me, naked, young, and intoxicated. "Are you sure you don't want to?" he asked, with another fetching wriggle. 

"I'm sure," I said, still lying. "It's too hot to sleep like that, _petit_." 

"I'm not _petit_. Don't call me that." He sniffed and moved off of me, which was what I had wanted. 

"All right, you're not. Go to sleep." 

"I don't want to. I want to make love. Please?" 

I turned on my side so that I wasn't facing him. "Not tonight." 

Jehan sighed gustily. "You're dull." 

I bit my lip, hoping that the pain would distract me from my arousal. "I know. Goodnight, Jehan." 

He made a small grumbling noise. "Goodnight." 

I am sure he slept easily, given his inebriation. It took me rather longer, and it took a great deal of willpower not to wake him and take him up on his offer. 

Jehan woke before I did and got out of bed in the predawn hours to perform ablutions. In getting up, he woke me, though I fell asleep again almost immediately. I remember looking at him in crepuscular illumination and wondering why he had stayed. When I woke again, the sun was well up, and Jehan was asleep, his torso on my chest and his cheek pressed against my shoulder. He was snoring a little in the breathy, gentle way of someone whose lovers will never tell him he snores. His rather absurdly long hair had slipped out of its ribbon and sprawled across my sheets. I shifted a little, for he was making one of my arms fall asleep. Then, given the golden opportunity, I ran my hand down his back, appreciating his smooth skin and the soft curve of his buttocks. He twitched a little but gave no sign of waking until I combed my fingers through his hair and attempted to gather it. He stirred and blinked at me with wide, dark eyes. 

As soon as he realized that he was on top of me, he blushed and rolled to the side. "I'm sorry, Christophe," he mumbled. "I shouldn't --" 

I caught at his shoulder. "Do you think I minded, pretty one? Not at all. Let me find you some breakfast, let me wake up a bit, and I believe we have unfinished business from last night." 

His blush deepened. "I thought you said we needn't." 

"And you said you wanted to, _n'est-ce pas_?" 

He frowned at me. "I was drunk, and you were gentleman enough not to take me at my word." 

I touched his cheek and smiled, though he flinched. "I wasn't being chivalrous. I was waiting for you to be sober so that we could do this properly." 

"But --" 

I clucked my tongue. "Ah, _mon frère_. It will not be so terrible as all of that. Don't worry so." 

Jehan frowned again. "But I don't want to." 

"Pity, as you're under an obligation." I kissed his cheek. "Should I find you wine for breakfast to ease your discomfort? You were more than willing last night." 

He turned away from me. "Then you ought to have done what you were going to do then." 

I ran my hand down his spine and made him shiver. "You were too far gone for that." 

"Too far gone to give you a moment's pleasure?" His tone was sharp. "I am not that inept." 

"No." I caressed the curve of his buttocks. "Little brother, I want to share this with you, not steal something from you. I want to take you in my mouth, lovely boy. I want to taste you and make you cry out. What you do to me -- if you do anything -- is entirely up to you." 

He did not answer for several moments. "How can you say such things? I -- I -- if you like." 

I smiled. "Is that an appealing thought, then?" 

He turned to look at me. He was blushing again, but his cock was more than half-erect. "I -- yes," he admitted in a small voice. 

"Good." I kissed him. For all his earlier protestations, he kissed me back eagerly. Still -- I broke the kiss and said, above the pounding of my heart, "If you truly want to go, I shan't keep you, and you don't need to do anything." 

He blinked at me for a moment, then put his hand on my erection. "Your conscience can be quiet." He kissed me again, then explained, "I was just afraid you'd ask me to -- to --" His cheeks went red. 

I asked, "To what?" indulging my prurient curiosity, and wondering what words he'd use for what he apparently dreaded. 

"You know," he said, looking at the pillow and waving a hand. "Because -- that would hurt." 

I chuckled. "Is that what you think?" 

"Yes." The asperity was back in his voice. "You're -- yes. It would." 

"Perhaps," I said lightly. "But you want me to touch you, yes?" 

He shivered. "If you like." 

"I would like to, at that." 

"It might be pleasant," he admitted. 

"What faith you have in me." I kissed him again. 

"I'm sorry. All right, then." 

I paused and looked at him, flushed cheeks, red lips, wide eyes, and all. "All right, what?" 

He waved a hand. "If you're going to -- to do what you said, then get it over with." 

I laughed until he frowned at me. "I've nowhere to go today, Jehan," I said, which was perfectly true. "I could make love to you all morning." 

He wriggled. "Théo is expecting me." He didn't mention that, given his youth, he would be less likely to wait all morning than I was -- and I am not patient in bed. 

"Ah. Well, I shan't keep you any longer than necessary." I let him go and leaned over the edge of the bed. 

I felt him sit up. "What are you doing?" 

I retrieved a somewhat dusty bottle of oil and showed him. "Looking for this." 

He lay back, but frowned. "I thought you said you wouldn't." 

"Only if you want me to." I wet two of my fingers with the oil and smiled at him. "Relax, would you? I won't do anything you don't want." 

"All right," he said, but he sounded dubious. 

"For God's sake. Spread your legs, would you?" He did, and hid his face in his hand, so that one vulnerability might be counteracted by a modicum of protection. I moved down the bed and settled comfortably between his calves. "Don't forget to breathe, _petit_." I bent to take him in my mouth. He gasped and twitched at the first touch. I hadn't realized how aroused he was; I let him go again and kissed his cock lightly as he fought for breath. "Sweet Jehan. Calm down a bit, or it'll be over too soon." 

"Calm down?" he asked, on the end of an incredulous gasp. 

"Yes." I kissed the inside of his thigh and felt his muscles tremble. With the oiled fingers of my right hand, I rubbed the cleft of his buttocks, wide as it was with his legs so far apart. 

He spluttered. "God, Christophe --" 

"Relax, _mon frère_." I pushed one finger inside him to the knuckle. His hips moved. "Relax." I took him in my mouth again and eased my finger farther in. 

"Ah, God," he sighed. He lifted his hips from the bed, thrusting into my mouth. I pulled away and went back to kissing his straining muscles and his cock while I regained enough logical thought to crook my finger just so and make him swear again. He opened his eyes while I watched him grimace, and raised a hand to knot it in my hair. "Don't stop. Please." 

"All right," I said, amiably enough, and went back to the simple but enjoyable art of making a lovely boy come in my mouth. 

He was embarrassed afterward and would have turned away, except that I was between his thighs and I still had a finger inside him. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should have warned you." 

I blinked at him, then moved to lie beside him and kissed him softly. "Did you think I minded?" 

Jehan blushed. "You should have minded." 

"But I didn't." 

He bit his lip. "I don't know why not." 

I clucked my tongue. "All right -- I minded terribly." He looked at me with frightened eyes. "I did," I insisted. "It was hideous. The only way you can make amends is by letting me make love to you." I moved my finger inside him and made him shiver. 

"If -- if you're careful." He put a hand on my shoulder. 

"I'm always careful," I assured him, and kissed him again. 

It was peculiar how readily I overcame my sense that he was too young for debauchery. Certainly no such pangs of conscience kept me from spreading his legs once he was somewhat recovered. For all his earlier protestations, he enjoyed that as much as I had hoped he would. Afterward, we both fell asleep for perhaps an hour. I woke with Jehan in my arms and his head pillowed on my shoulder. He had apparently been awake longer than I, but had refrained from waking me. He kissed me and shifted a little, and I realized he was aroused again, which made me smile. "It's good to be young, _n'est-ce pas_?" 

He blushed and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll go." 

"Like that? However will you get dressed?" 

"Christophe! It will go away." 

I ran my fingers down the arching length of that which we were discussing. "Why would you want it to do that?" 

He mumbled something. 

"What?" 

"What you must think of me," he said, a little more loudly. 

"I think you're lovely. Here, _petit frère_ , let me teach you something." 

I sent him home well after two in the afternoon, walking a bit less confidently than usual. By the end of it, he had ceased to be quite so timid, and I felt -- as I had not felt with the others -- that perhaps he was more than just a political ally. 

It was not at all difficult to convince Bossuet to come with me the day after Jehan visited me. He must have heard the story of the long morning in detail. Monsieur Laigle approached me when they first arrived, the poet safe in his lover's arms as though he had not been in my bed six hours previously. Bossuet asked, "Are you busy tomorrow night?" clearly sure that I was not, and that I would like to be. 

"I suppose not, _mon frère_. Are you?" 

He gave me a broad wink. "I'm always busy, but I can join you if you like." 

"We do have an appointment of sorts, don't we?" 

"Sooner or later, yes." He glanced at Jehan, who was discussing something with Audric and paying us no heed. "Perhaps sooner is better." 

"Indeed." I gave him my most wicked smile. "You won't be busy tomorrow night, if you're at home." 

Bossuet snorted. "Thank you for the advice." 

"Always glad to be of service." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow." 

Bossuet was neither as frightened or as enthusiastic as his paramour. He knew his obligation, and he was willing to fulfill it with skillful fingers, thus sacrificing as little dignity as possible to the cause of _fraternité_. We lay in each other's arms when the vows were done. He had the manner of one who is accustomed to sharing a bed, and he seemed a great deal more comfortable naked than he had been dressed. He told me about Jehan, how they had met and fallen in love, and the sweet madness that was their romance. I might have been jealous if I had not held Jehan the day before; I might have felt lonely hearing such tales at another time. In that context, however, I could kiss him between anecdotes, and I had the memory of his beloved's face in ecstasy to warm me. 

Two nights later, Chrétien approached me. "Let's be done with this," he said, sharply, and I blinked. 

"Is it such a terrible burden on you?" 

"We've not done anything yet. We must." He spread his hands. "Come home with me, and let us have done with the nonsense." 

It was the oddest proposition I had ever received, but I was under as much obligation to accept it as he was to extend it. He called me brother and took what liberties were expected of him, offered me the same in return, and winced the whole time. If I had not known better, I would have sworn I had taken his virginity, at least in regard to members of his own sex. 

He did not fall asleep immediately afterward, but he did not speak to me either. We were silent until we fell asleep. I woke before he did and took my leave of his room; my continued presence would doubtless have distressed him further. 

Three nights later, Aimery realized as he was leaving the café that I was still there, alone, waiting as in the courtyard of Astarte's temple for someone, but all of the other someones had left. He came back in and sat on my table for a moment. "I take it you're not busy tonight." 

"I haven't been for several nights, no." I stood up, and so did he, with an easy grace. 

"Ah. Well, then -- shall we?" He kissed me, long, lingering, and very much against the rules. 

"Let's." 

Aimery's flat was closer than mine. His bed was wide, and he called me brother in a manner both teasing and earnest. "You've had quite a week, then," he said as he unbuttoned my pants. 

"More than a week, because you kept me waiting." I kissed him. He chuckled and embraced me. 

"I do apologize, _mon frère_ , but I thought that you were still waiting for Chrétien." 

I tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear and ran my hand down his back. "Why were you waiting when we could have done this sooner?" 

"Chrétien is difficult. I didn't want that to be your last memory of this." He slid his hands inside my pants and pushed them down. "I expect this will be much more pleasant." 

I gave him a measuring look. "So far, it's dull compared to _frère_ Joly." 

"Really?" Aimery did not sound as though he believed me. 

"You haven't flinched once." I laced my fingers in his hair and kissed him again. 

"It isn't that easy to make me flinch," he said breathlessly when I let him go. 

"So I see." I glanced over his shoulder. "Bed's behind me?" 

"About three steps." 

I sat down, and he sat half beside me, half on my lap. We kissed again, and I asked, "Better?" 

"I think so, yes." 

Once the possibility of falling over was gone, we kissed and caressed each other for quite a while. He got me to gasp first, and gave me a rather smug look. To prove that my mind was not entirely disconnected, I said, "There is a flaw in this system, _mon frère_." 

"Oh? What's that?" 

"It would save a great deal of time if you simply rented a room and did this all at once." His erection twitched under my hand, and I grinned at him. "It would be a bit confusing, maybe --" 

" -- not to mention tiring --" 

" -- but it would be great fun, don't you think?" 

Aimery shook his head. "Why didn't we ever think of that?" 

I snorted. "You never thought of that?" 

"I never proposed it. Lie down?" 

I got on the bed properly. "No? Why not?" 

He shrugged and settled between my legs. "I didn't want to imagine Chrétien's face. Or Julien's, for that matter." 

"It was only an idea. No need to bring real life into it." I tucked the pillow under my head. "How shall we seal this vow, then?" 

"A chaste kiss would suffice." He bestowed one on my thigh and started to get up. "There, we're done." 

I laughed and sat up to catch his hands. "I'm not entirely satisfied with that conclusion." 

"You're not?" He gave me a mock-quizzical look and a peck on the cheek. "Better?" 

I ran my fingers down his spine lightly. "No, not really." 

"We could share a bottle of wine." 

"It ruins my endurance," I objected. 

"And we can't have that." He slid his hand between our bodies. "If you're going to languish in durance vile, you should damned well enjoy it." 

"I expect I shall, if I've good company." 

"And do I fit that description?" 

I kissed him for an answer. "Aimery?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I don't like to rush things." 

Aimery smiled. "Neither do I." 

"But prolonging the wrong parts is unpleasant." 

He shrugged. "Yes?" 

"Dear brother. Sweet, loving friend. Could you shut up until you're inside me?" 

He laughed. "Since you ask so nicely -- I suppose I could try." 

Once we'd stopped teasing each other, it did not take terribly long until he did what I asked of him. It was not a pleasure that I indulged in terribly often, but in the right company -- which Aimery's was -- it was splendid. Partway through, he asked, "Would you really want us, all at once?" 

I bit my lip until the pain cleared my head enough so that I could think. "Perhaps not -- not for the initiation. It'd be tiring, like you said. But -- ought to have some sort of party, every now and then. Or do you?" 

"That would be entirely too much fun." 

"Wouldn't it, though?" 

Aimery sighed. "Perhaps, at some point -- we could convince some of the others." 

I bit my lip again. "Perhaps we could. I --" 

"What?" He stopped, immediately solicitous. 

"Can't think, right now." 

"Ah." 

Falling asleep in Aimery's arms was mildly sticky comfort. We were too tired to speak of anything of consequence, but it was the most pleasant exhaustion I had felt in quite a while. I was glad in the morning that he had waited until I dealt with Chrétien; it was entirely charming to wake with him and make love with him again before breakfast and class. No one made me feel quite as at home as Aimery did. When we parted that morning, I felt that the baptism had finally taken effect. I was of their _fraternité_ , and very gladly so.


	14. Indulgence (Prouvaire): October, 1828

Aimery Courfeyrac and I had been joking about restraint for three nonconsecutive nights before he tied me to the bed. He did not mean it entirely seriously, though he proposed it, and I was not prepared to be as excited as I was by being in his power. I knew in some part of my mind that it was all an illusion, that he was no more dominating me that night than any other, that I only had to say the right word and he would let me up. Even so, it made the blood pound in my veins. He had asked countless times for me to take him in my mouth, and it was never as titillating as when he ordered me to it. I have felt his fingers inside me, opening my body, but it was never as humiliating and perfect as when he told me that I could not refuse him.

It was very unlike anything I would have done with Bossuet, who was always gentle with me. But he had abandoned me months before for Joly's charms, without so much as a by-your-leave or an explanation. We had not been apart for so much as a week, and all of a sudden he missed meetings -- as did his new lover. I could not approach either of them. They were happy and they did not need me. I was inconsolable, dejected, and melancholy. I determined to complain to no one of my woes.

Aimery upset my plan. He took me aside one night when the meeting was breaking up and asked, "Would you like to come home with me?" Daniel Feuilly had already left, without Aimery, or I might have refused him. He took me home and asked me about Bossuet. I wept into his pillow as I told the story. He shook his head and rubbed my back, telling me that everything would be all right. I sniffled into his handkerchief and washed my face. Aimery took me in his arms again and told me that Bossuet was a fool for leaving me. We made love. It was sweet to sleep in his arms, though he was not my lost love.

Christophe Bahorel approached me two nights later. He had always frightened me, though he was of the fraternity. He is a big man in every respect, and I am slight. He always seems as though he could break me with one hand. I went with him, for company, and stayed for a week in newfound delight. Apart from the initiations, he was only my third lover, and as different from Bossuet's care and Aimery's sweetness as any man could be. He teased me and tousled my hair, taught me unspeakable things and prodded me to try them. Christophe overwhelmed me and made it impossible to think of anything but him for hours at a time. In his bed, I found the oblivion of ecstasy coupled with the joy of friendship. I also spent a night or two a week with Aimery, when he was not busy with Daniel or Audric. He sometimes said that he worried about me, hanging around Christophe as much as I did, but I brushed off his concern. Sometimes, we were gentle with each other, but more often, I asked him to be less polite, to play our game. It was a great deal more engaging than simpler sex. I could lose my memory and my inhibitions without fear; I wanted neither to separate me from Aimery.

We had joked about inviting Christophe for one of those nights, or at least, I had thought that I was joking. Aimery seemed to think that because such discussions made my breath catch and my hips move, and because I raised the subject more than once, that I was serious. He gave me no warning, perhaps because he knew I would demur if he did. We had gone to my flat after the meeting; he gave his new roommate some excuse while I waited for him and tried to look as though I was not. When we arrived, we sat on the bed and kissed for what seemed half an hour until I started fidgetting. He chided me -- "Impatient little brother" -- as though he did not have his hand between my thighs, encouraging me to wriggle and making me want more. He started undressing me, dropping light kisses where the buttons had fastened. I kicked off my shoes and he stopped. "Jehan -- will you do as I say tonight?"

I considered this for a few moments. He had already made me impatient, and games took longer than normal lovemaking, but I had spent much of the evening wondering where Bossuet was, and I did not want to think about him any more. "If you like," I said.

"Then take your pants off and lie back." I smiled at him, and did as I was told. It was a warm night. The blankets were pushed to the bottom of the bed, and the fine linen sheets were cool against my skin. While I finished undressing, Aimery took the scarves he liked to use out of his coat pockets. Once I was done, and comfortable, he tied my wrists together and fastened them loosely to the bedframe near the pillow. "Is that all right?" I nodded. "Good." He sat beside me, fully clothed, and ran his hands over my body. It might have been pleasurable, rather like a gentle massage, if I had not been aching for him. 

"Please, Aimé. Touch me," I asked, as beseechingly as I could manage.

He grinned at me. "I am touching you."

"You know what I mean. Please?"

There was a knock on the door. Any desire I had felt the moment before turned immediately into a blush so strong my toes must have turned scarlet. "Tell them to go away!" I hissed at Aimery.

He smiled again in his self-assured way. "I'll be back in a moment, _chéri._ " He pulled the sheet over me and went into the other room, closing the bedroom door behind him. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I willed whomever it was to go away instantly.

Aimery opened the door -- I could hear that -- but he did not greet his visitor loudly enough for me to hear him say anything, nor did the visitor introduce itself nor greet him. I was terrified that he had left me, gone out to do God knows what with someone or other. I wasn't at all sure that I could untie the knots, left to myself.

The bedroom door opened. I choked on a scream. It was a tall, burly man carrying a candlestick. After my heart started beating again, I recognized Christophe. "Good evening, Jehan," he said cheerfully, and came toward the bed. "You're looking well."

"Good evening," I said in a very small voice.

Aimery followed Christophe into the room and locked the door behind himself. Christophe set the candle on the bedside table and asked, "Are you quite all right?"

"You scared me out of my wits," I protested. I was no longer frightened; instead, I was furious with both of them. "What are you doing here? Let me off this bed right now!"

Christophe pulled back the sheet. "And let a lovely thing like you get away?"

Aimery put his hand on Christophe's shoulder and gave me an utterly disarming smile. "We'll let you go, if that's what you want. But I seem to recall one of my friends telling me with some enthusiasm that he would quite like to share a bed with Christophe and me." I blushed again; he was telling the truth, but I did not want Christophe to know that. Aimery went on, "Then again, you've told me you're afraid of him --"

Christophe snorted. "Afraid of me? Jehan who begs me to fuck him?"

"Christophe!" I protested. "I --"

Aimery touched my calf gently. "Do you want to leave?"

I turned my head, trying to hide a blush. "-- no."

"You know how to stop this," Aimery said, all solemnity. I nodded; clearly he would expect the same trigger as ever. 

Christophe grinned and unbuckled his belt. "Well, that's settled."

Aimery shook his head, then embraced Christophe. "Remember-- be a little gentle, and anything from the First Republic means stop."

Christophe kissed him, long and lingering. They were clearly closer than I had suspected. "I understand, for the fifth time. Now will you let me get undressed?"

Aimery kissed him again. "Let me do it." They undressed each other by the side of the bed, in the candlelight, where I could clearly see them both. If my hands had not been tied, I could have given them the same intimate caresses they gave each other, and that every so often they would lean over and give me. It seemed intolerably long before they were both naked. I was aroused again, both from watching them and from their intermittent attentions. 

"Well, Aimery," Christophe said, amused, "what shall we do with our young captive?"

Aimery gave me an appraising look. "I think we ought to enjoy him."

Christophe looked impatient. "Well, yes. In what manner?"

"Mm." Aimery gave me another long look. "Did you say he's begged you?" 

I turned my face away and turned my hips as best I could. I knew they were both looking at me in the same, lustful way. Christophe ran his hand down my spine. "I said that, yes."

Aimery leaned over and kissed my thigh. The muscles in my leg trembled. "I would like to hear that."

"Would you, now. Well, then." Christophe sat on the end of the bed and ran a hand up my leg. "Jean, you ought to turn onto your back so that we can see your face. Aimé, do you have a spare pillow, and --" I had half-turned by the time Aimery found the pillow and handed it to him. He also picked up a bottle that lived by the head of the bed.

"Olive oil," he said, grinning, "in the best Greek tradition."

"Perfect." Christophe grinned back, a wolf's grin, hungry. He patted my hip. "Lift your hips, Jean -- just a moment." I did, wondering if I was going to blush through the entire evening, and he slid the pillow underneath. "Better."

I relaxed, inasmuch as it is possible to relax with one's hips on a pillow, a friend between one's calves, and a prominently displayed erection. "Aimé, what do you want?" I asked, and if my voice was smaller than normal, no one was surprised.

Aimery handed Christophe the bottle, then came to the head of the bed and ran his fingers across my lips. I nibbled on the tips of his fingers out of affectionate habit, and he smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to have me in your mouth, when you've finished begging."

I felt sure that my face was crimson. "I -- I suppose I wouldn't mind that."

Aimery laughed. "Christophe, he says he 'wouldn't mind' having us both at once."

Christophe pushed my knees farther apart, gently but insistently. "Gracious of you, petit."

"As if you could prevent us," Aimery said, more softly, and thrust his fingers into my mouth.

"Probably be glad of it, soon enough," Christophe added, and spread my buttocks with oil-slicked fingers. "We don't want you waking the neighbors, after all."

"They might want to join in," Aimery said lightly, and sat near the head of the bed. I felt Christophe's finger slide into me, and remembered as my muscles relaxed precisely how formidable he really was.

"There, now," Christophe said, apparently to me, and reached up to tweak one of my nipples. "We can't have the whole neighborhood in. They'd exhaust the boy." He crooked his finger just so and made me gasp.

Aimery kissed my nipple. "As if you would mind that, Jehan." He tugged on it for a moment with his teeth. Christophe pushed a second finger inside me, and between their attentions I could only moan.

"Doesn't sound like he would mind at all. Ah, Jehan," Christophe said, with a mock sigh, "you seem to be enjoying this. Shall I suck you for half a moment and end this torment?"

I pushed against his fingers, unable to say, "No," though I wanted to refuse this. Aimery pinched my nipple and paused a moment, then said, "Don't, Christophe. If he wanted that, he'd have asked."

This was entirely true. The only noise I could muster was another moan. Christophe bent his head and bit the inside of my thigh for a moment. "Jehan, Aimé thinks you're still awake." He twisted his fingers inside me. "I haven't heard a word out of you in quite a while now." Again he twisted his fingers and pushed them a little deeper. I whimpered, for want of words. Perhaps Christophe understood my speechlessness, for he stopped and asked, "What do you want, Jean?" I sighed and tried to push against him, to make him move, but he pulled his fingers out of me and waited for me to finish moaning before he repeated, "What do you want?"

"You," I said, trying to find words that could express my desperation. "Please, Christophe. I need you inside me." I looked at him for the first time in fifteen minutes. He had not sounded as aroused as he looked, but his never copious patience was clearly wearing thin. "Take me," I said, and felt myself blush again.

Christophe looked at Aimery, who was still stroking my nipples. "Do you think he means it?"

"Of course I mean it," I interrupted. "Please."

Aimery ignored my outburst. "If he meant it, he would have asked what you said before. He's a smart boy; he knows that."

Christophe had been exaggerating. He encouraged me to talk while we were making love, to ask him for what I wanted, but I rarely used coarse language. I was even less comfortable saying such things around Aimery, who was not as crude as Christophe. I hesitated, but I wanted them, and they were not going to continue while I was silent. "Please. I -- God, Christophe. Please fuck me. I -- I want this. I want -- I want you. Please."

Christophe chuckled. "That's better." He got up on his knees. "Ought to make you say it more often."

"Hold on," Aimery said, and looked down at me, though my eyes were not focusing consistently. "Can you do this, Jehan?"

"Yes. Please -- please, Aimé."

"Do you want us both?"

That took me half a moment longer. "Yes. I've never -- but -- please."

Aimery touched my cheek and smiled at me. "All right, then." He shifted so that he was on his knees, straddling my chest just below my shoulders. He turned and glanced at Christophe. "You've had your invitation, _chéri_. What are you waiting for?"

Christophe said, "Someone told me to wait," and then gasped, as did I, as he began to fulfill my request. Even after his exceedingly prolonged preparations, I could feel the tension in my body as he slid into me.

Aimery touched my forehead and said, "Hush," softly. It was only then that I realized I had been making any noise at all. Christophe held my hips in his hands. Between Aimery's scarves on my wrists, his hands on my face, and Christophe clinging to me even as he thrust into me, I was all but frozen in place. "Do you want this?" Aimery asked me again. I did not immediately know what he meant.

I tried to say, "Yes," but Christophe withdrew, then pressed inside me again, and all I could manage was, "Oh, God."

Aimery was impatient enough to understand that as the affirmative it was meant to be. He let me take him in my mouth just as Christophe moved again. Aimery braced himself on the headboard. Christophe balanced his weight over my pelvis. I lost myself between them, trying to remember how to please Aimery, and pushing against Christophe until I was full of both of them and mad with the passion of the moment. It had been perhaps an hour since it all began; it felt three times that long. I would probably have woken the neighbors, in the end, if my throat had not been full of Aimery.

Christophe said, in a low, choked voice, "God, you're beautiful," to both of us, and his fingers tightened on my hips as he thrust faster for long moments until he stopped, breathing hard.

When I could open my eyes again, I looked up at Aimery. His eyes were half shut, but he smiled at me and ran his fingers through my hair. "Sweet Jehan."

"I think I need to move," I said, and winced. "I'm sorry."

Christophe ran his hands down my legs. "Ah, Jehan. That was lovely." He moved back to sit at the end of the bed, which made us both wince.

Aimery grinned at me and moved to the side so that he was no longer sitting on me, then reached up and untied my hands. "Better?"

I stretched until my toes brushed Christophe's leg, then relaxed. "Yes. Much better." I reached down and pulled the pillow out. It was rather the worse for wear, and I showed Aimery, who laughed.

"Don't worry about it. Not now, anyway. Toss it on the floor." I dropped it on the floor where no one was likely to step on it, then lay back. Aimery embraced me and gave me a kiss. "Thank you for playing along, Jehan."

Christophe lay down on the other side of me and hugged us both. "Ought to do it again, I say."

I blushed. "Thank you both. It was -- it was lovely."

Christophe ruffled my hair, though it was thoroughly disheveled without his contribution. "That's good. I'd hate to hear you say it wasn't."

Aimery kissed my cheek. "It was supposed to be lovely." He let me go and sat up to blow out the candle. "Goodnight, _mes frères._ " 

"Goodnight," I said, and embraced him again. I fell asleep before I heard Christophe say anything. 


	15. Hesitation: November, 1828

One sunny afternoon not long after Monsieur le Baron Marius Pontmercy has transferred all of his material goods from his dwelling in a fiacre to a slightly less expensive room next door to Courfeyrac, he knocks on his friend and neighbor's door with a somewhat nervous look.

"Who's there?" comes the answer, lazily.

"Um, it's Marius."

A pause. "Oh. Half a minute." In slightly more than half a minute Courfeyrac opens the door, shirtsleeved and tousled. "Hello there."

Pontmercy blushes. "I'm sorry, did I wake you? I'll go."

"Quite all right." Courfeyrac steps aside to let him in. "What's on your mind?"

"I just wanted to talk to you."

Courfeyrac scrubs a hand across his eyes. "To be sure. Do sit down."

Pontmercy sits in Courfeyrac's desk chair after a moment. "I was wondering," he says, and stops there, as though that is a whole sentence.

Courfeyrac collapses gracefully onto the edge of the bed. "Yes?"

"If you were -- er -- fond of someone." Pontmercy runs a hand through his hair and looks at the floor. "How would you tell, um, her?" The last word is quiet, almost reluctant.

Courfeyrac blinks at him. "Well. That would depend, wouldn't it?"

Pontmercy blinks back. "Would it? On what?"

"On the -- person in question."

"Oh." Pontmercy looks at the floor again. "Well. I don't know what you mean -- I'm sorry, I don't suppose you've much experience in this either."

Courfeyrac chuckles. "A little. I don't know. How much subtlety is required?"

"If I knew," somewhat testily, "why would I be asking you?"

"Take the number of hovering relatives, multiply by probable cost of her clothes, divide by ten and allow that many days for significant progress," says Courfeyrac flippantly.

Pontmercy stares at him for a moment. "You're joking. Aren't you?"

"Mostly."

"Ah." Pontmercy fidgets with his collar. "So if she hasn't many relatives or much money --"

Courfeyrac shrugs. "Then you can probably speak plainly." If you can manage it without stammering, poor boy.

Pontmercy blushes. "But -- she's a good person."

"Of course." Courfeyrac grins. "You're not going to say anything insulting, are you?"

"She might think I'm uncouth."

"Not if you do it right."

"But I've never done it before. How would I know what's right?"

Courfeyrac chuckles. "My dear fellow, I don't think you could be uncouth if you tried."

"But I might do it by mistake."

"I wouldn't worry," kindly.

Pontmercy sighs. "I'm not you."

"And a very good thing, too. One of me is quite sufficient, I'm told." Courfeyrac grins at him. "Don't worry so much. If your intentions are good--"

Pontmercy shrugs. "I don't think I can say what I mean."

"Well, I certainly can't say what you mean." Courfeyrac leans over to rest a hand on his knee. "If she's at all bright, she'll know what you mean."

Pontmercy looks at him and frowns for a moment, then bites his lip. "I just don't want her to -- to think I'm asking too much."

Courfeyrac grins. "She won't, if you don't. Use a little tact, that's all."

"Of course I will," Pontmercy says, offended. "I just --"

"Of course you will," soothingly, "and so you'll be perfectly all right. Unless you aren't, in which case she's a heartless baggage anyway."

"All right, I suppose." Pontmercy sighs. "How do you manage it?"

Courfeyrac grins. "Confidence, _mon ami._ "

"Oh. I wish I had some."

"Well, look at it this way; there's no reason not to."

"But I've never done this before." Pontmercy puts his head in his hands.

"You have to start somewhere, don't you?"

"I suppose."

Courfeyrac meets his eyes. " _Mon ami,_ believe me. Be straightforward, be gentle, anyone in her senses will be glad to give you the benefit of the doubt."

Pontmercy nods. "All right. Thank you."

"Anything I can do," lightly.

This, unaccountably, makes him blush again. "Thank you." He stands.

Courfeyrac rises likewise, graceful, casual. "Not at all."

Pontmercy bites his lip. "I'll see you later?"

"In all likelihood." Courfeyrac grins.

"Until then." Pontmercy goes out.


	16. Error (Pontmercy): December, 1828

It was all terribly confusing at first. They are all so close to each other, and I, I know nothing of any of them, not even Courfeyrac who was very kind, I suppose, in offering me a place to stay. If he had not, I might well be back at my grandfather’s doorstep, asking for forgiveness. But Courfeyrac is generous, and so I have a little dignity left.

He is also odd, he and his friends. It seems that there is nearly always someone visiting him late at night or first thing in the morning, and I don’t entirely understand why. Perhaps they simply have a great deal to discuss, though they seem to have many discussions during the evenings when they are all together, too, and I can’t imagine that there are that many things to talk about in the world. They seem to find them, early and late. And they may well be talking.

Some of his friends -- Bahorel, for instance -- are less sensible even than I would expect from men who profess to be militant Republicans. But some make a little sense: Combeferre, Feuilly. Feuilly, especially. I wonder how he and Courfeyrac can be quite as close as they are when one is quiet and the other is frighteningly outspoken; one is calm and the other is ever excited about something or other. 

Feuilly seems like the sort of fellow everyone needs around, dependable and sensible. Not to say I dislike Courfeyrac, but I certainly prefer Feuilly’s company, as he won’t tease me about anything or laugh because I seem like I don’t know what is happening all the time. Unlike Courfeyrac, he knows he has faults. But they are charming faults, I would say. Certainly I can understand his tendency to be quiet among his friends; they are all brilliant and terrifying by turns. I cannot usually find words among them, either.

And whatever the reason, he is always as ready with a smile as any of them, though I would have thought that someone in his social position would find it difficult to be merry very often. Surely he cannot afford to relax, and yet he does. That in itself is admirable. And when he does relax, he is witty; when he smiles, it makes one want to smile back. 

I had never meant to tell him how much I respected him, for however I tried, it would have certainly sounded awkward, but one morning I met him in the hallway outside of Courfeyrac’s room. He was on his way to work, I en route to class. We nodded and said, "Good morning," and should have left it at that. Instead, I watched him lock the door behind himself and noticed that he had a key, which was odd. He looked up at me when that was done and gave me another smile. "Have a good day, then." I am not entirely sure why I embraced him, then, and gave him a brief kiss on each cheek as one might do with a friend. He patted my shoulder, as confused as I was, and he must have expected that I would let him go in a moment, but instead I kissed him.

It was the first kiss I had ever given anyone outside of my family other than the brief kissing-the-air, and as such it was at least as muddled as anything else that morning. I knew nothing more than that I wanted it to go on longer, to stand with my lips pressed against his and my arms around him for half the morning. He smelled warm and comforting, a little like paint and a little like fresh bread. I believe I took him by surprise in kissing him, for he did not object or try to move away, but neither did he kiss me back. He doubtless knew a better way of kissing or a girl he would rather have kissed, and perhaps he thought of the latter and forbore to do the former. He protested eventually and stepped backward so that I could not entirely hold him. His cheeks were red with a blush. He did not meet my eyes. He said, "Good morning," again, and set off down the hall very quickly. I took a few steps after him, wanting to apologize or perhaps talk more than we had, before I realized how odd it would be to pursue the matter just then.

I wrote a letter, careful to address him politely as _vous_ throughout though my heart ached to call him friend:

_Mon cher_ Feuilly,

I must apologize for my conduct yesterday morning. What I did was wrong and you no doubt think less of me for it; I am sure that I offended you. Please, trust that I shall not do anything of the sort again. It was inexplicable and, perhaps, unforgivable. The latter is entirely your decision. I, of course, hope that you will forgive my idiocy and deign to remain my friend.

I meant no harm. Please believe that. I apologize for my lack of manners and my inability to communicate in a sensible fashion -- hence this misbegotten letter, at which you are doubtless laughing if you have not given up in disgust.

I admire you greatly. I would not have acted so foolishly if I did not. you seem terribly wise and kind to me -- and though I have little else to commend me, I fancy myself a good judge of character. I suspect that it would not be wholly exaggeration to describe my emotion for you as love.

Again I have been foolish and again I apologize. If it bothers you at all that I have described my feeling thus, you need not tell me so. I shall not approach you regarding this letter nor speak to you of its contents unless you address me about it first. I assure you that the folly I committed yesterday will not be repeated.

Please, if you value me at all as a friend, though I am foolish and stupid and infinitely less wise than you, say nothing of my faux pas to your friends, and do not tell them of this letter. You must think me piteous, perhaps perverse; if you are terribly distressed then you may have already told them of my mistake. If I am luckier than I deserve and you think you could forgive me, please tell no one lest they find me reprehensible. I would be ever in your debt if you said nothing to them -- particularly Courfeyrac.

I shall be patient, and if you do not answer, I shall take that as an outright dismissal.

\-- Marius Pontmercy

I finished the letter at eleven o’clock at night, and would have gone to bed, except that I heard voices in the corridor outside my room, saying, “Perhaps, _mon frère_ , we shouldn’t have had quite so much wine.”

“Perhaps, but it’s no great hardship.”

“To you, it’s not, but you don’t need to be awake in the morning, do you?”

“And neither do you. It’s Saturday.”

“Oh. So it is.”

“So that’s all right, then.”

“I suppose so.”

A door shut, and I sat up. One of those voices had certainly been Feuilly’s, the other Courfeyrac’s. I could go next door and give him the letter, which was already weighing heavily in my hand, and it would be over. I did not doubt that he would be discreet enough to keep it from his friend.

I stood and took a candle into the hall, knocked lightly on the next door over and tried the knob when there was no answer. It was unlocked, and without entirely meaning to do it, I opened the door.

There was no lamp lit, but by the weak light of the candle, I could see Courfeyrac, his hair unbound and wild. He had his arms around someone and was kissing them with a passion that explained why he had not answered the door. I was too surprised to turn around immediately and speechless with embarrassment.

I did not realize it was Feuilly in his embrace until they broke the kiss and he looked at me. I dropped the letter, forgetting what it said, forgetting the need for secrecy, and veritably flew back into my room, where I put out the light and attempted to think. He had seen me, but that sickening knowledge did not keep me from trying to hide, trying to pretend I had not seen what I had seen nor discovered what I had discovered.

Before I had decided what to do next, there was a knock on my door. It was Courfeyrac, surely come to chide me for my thousand mistakes. I tried to apologize for the last and most glaring. I couldn’t look at him, but I said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -- to do anything wrong."

"You didn't," he said, and touched my shoulder. "You haven't. It's all right."

I didn’t immediately push him away. It was good to have some vague reassurance that he did not loathe me, but I was not convinced of the rest. "It's not all right."

" _Pauvre petit,_ have we shocked you?"

I hated him for that, though he meant it gently. "Don't. I said I'm sorry." I looked at him for the first time since he had come in the room. His hair was mussed, but he looked rather strangely serious. I wanted him to leave. "What else do I need to say?"

"And I said that you have nothing to apologize for, except not knocking loudly enough." He shook his head. "Calm down."

"I'm perfectly calm,” I said, though I was lying. “What did you want to say, then, if you aren't upset?"

"Well, to apologize, for one thing." Courfeyrac grinned crookedly. "I ought to have had better sense."

"What do you mean?"

Courfeyrac sat down beside me, too close, too intimately for any discussion, particularly one like this. "Could have locked the door, at least."

"It's my fault.” I was not entirely sure of this, but it seemed reasonable.

"Well, how were you to know?"

"I suppose I wasn't."

And when I sighed, Courfeyrac put an arm about my shoulders, as if he really had forgiven me, as if it were all forgivable that easily. "What's the matter, _mon ami_?"

I wanted to embrace him or, failing that, to throw him out immediately. "I feel like an idiot."

"Oh." Courfeyrac chuckled, though there was nothing funny about any of it. "Well, that happens."

"I'm sorry," I said again, hoping that he would leave.

"Marius. Don't worry about it." Courfeyrac hugged me. I hardly heard him say, "It will be all right,” for I wanted to hold him, and I wanted him to go.

"I don't see how."

Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment and looked at me as though he were trying to read my thoughts. Then he shook his head, despairing of whatever he’d seen. "I think you're upsetting yourself over nothing much. Get some sleep. And--"

It was more rejection than I could bear. I said, "I'm not tired, thank you."

"All right, stay up and read your newspapers then. But tomorrow, I think you should talk to Daniel." Courfeyrac stood.

"I don't know what you mean." That was, of course, not true, but I had not been expecting him to say anything of the sort, and he had embarrassed me.

"Only," he said, slowly, as though he believed my prevarication, "that Feuilly is a good man to confide in... particularly for the lovelorn. And his advice is generally sound."

As if he had ever needed to be lovelorn, damn him. As if he’d ever known what I was feeling. I put my head in my hands and wished he had never spoken to me in the first place. "Thank you. I can see I didn't need any dignity."

"Oh, for God's sake." I had aggravated him, but I was not sorry. He was aggravating me. "Dignity is all well and good, young man, but don't overindulge."

"Damn it." I stood, glaring at him. "What did you want to say to me? Oh, it's a shame I can't see what's right in front of my face, how sad that I can't do anything right, perhaps I'm a nice boy but that doesn't go far, does it?"

"Calm down." His face was red, perhaps with annoyance. "I'm not your enemy, for heaven's sake, Pontmercy. What do you want me to say?"

"I didn't want you to say anything. I don't know what you wanted to say to me when you came over here, it's nothing -- nothing to do with you." I had never wanted him to know any of it.

"I came over here because you left in something of a panic, _mon ami_ , and I thought you might need reassurance. As for the rest-- no, it's nothing to do with me, except that I consider you a friend. Both of you," he amended, after a moment, in case I had missed the fact that he was Daniel’s friend.

I bit my lip. "All right. I'm sorry," and I was, sorry for a thousand things, although not necessarily for angering him.

"It's all right." Courfeyrac took a deep breath. "I'll leave you to your newspapers, I suppose."

I crossed my arms. "I'm sorry."

"I said-- it's all right. Get some rest; you'll feel better in the morning." He went toward the door. "Good night, _mon ami_."

"Good night," I said, though all of a sudden I hated to see him go. He would have his friend, his love, and I would have no company but my own humiliation.

He must have heard it, for he came back and put a hand on my shoulder. I embraced him, trying not to think why, and apologized again. He said, " _Mon ami_. Everything's all right. Truly."

That was incredible. I asked, softly, "You don't hate me?" for he must have been embarrassed, hurt, jealous, at the very least irritated. He had no reason to tolerate me at all.

"Of course not," he said, and I began to believe it.

My anger left me in a sigh. "All right."

Courfeyrac patted me on the back and let me go, as though I were an irritated child and not his friend. "Goodnight. Don't fret."

"Good night," I repeated, though I no longer wanted him to go, but he only smiled and left. I had trouble sleeping that night, and when I did sleep, I was troubled by dreams of friends who hated me, my grandfather finding me in some boy’s bed and cursing me for a sodomite as well as an idiot. In the morning, I woke with my arms clutched tight around my pillow and something that might have been tears wetting the linen under my cheek.

The next evening I did not go with Courfeyrac to his political meeting. I could not have borne it, sitting there in public as if nothing had ever happened and I had not made an idiot of myself. I tried to read instead, but I could not concentrate on the book in my hand. I found myself rereading a paragraph, then a chapter, and ending with no greater understanding of what it had said than when I began.

At some point, I tried to go to sleep. I woke when someone tapped on my door. I considered putting my head under my pillow or faking a snore, anything to make them go away, but after a few moments I got up and put my pants on again. “Who is it?”

“It’s Daniel.”

I hated him, then, with all the fervor I had spent on caring for him before. He must have known everything, how poor piteous Pontmercy had been so very upset last night, had clung -- damn my childish impulses -- to Courfeyrac in a moment of weakness, of loneliness. And here was Daniel, knocking lightly on my door, surely at his friend’s, no, his lover’s behest, for no sane man would have wished to speak to me after the embarrassments I had heaped upon him.

Still, I unlocked the door for him and frowned at him in the dark hallway. I was not dressed to leave my room, and so I let him in and shut the door behind him. I could not help but smile at him then. He looked as tired as I felt, tousle-haired and worn down by a long day. I embraced him.

That was a mistake. It was unexpectedly sweet to have him in my arms, so much so that before I entirely knew what I was doing, I had kissed him again, as foolishly as I had before, but this time he kissed me back, though he did not embrace me. That didn’t matter; I couldn’t let him go, and I couldn’t stop kissing him, and neither could I think. It was a relief to hold him and know that I had not had to seek him out to speak to him, and yet it introduced a kind of tension in me that I did not understand.

I could not speak, then, and I could not have heard him had he said anything. All I wanted in the world was to kiss him, and he allowed it. I realized with some part of my mind that he was leaning against the closed door, and I was leaning on him and kissing him. He put his hand on my shoulder, and for a dizzy instant I feared he meant to push me away, but instead he moved it to the small of my back and pulled me closer.

I must have stopped kissing him for half a moment, for I heard myself sigh as I held him closer. I could not have remained standing if I had not been holding onto him; I felt as though I was going mad, and perhaps I was. His hand was on my hip, then, and I could feel his body through his trousers. I could not think well enough to know whether it was right or wrong. I only wanted to be closer to him, and so I pushed against him, as though I could be any more in his arms than I was.

Daniel said something, and I could not think well enough to know what it was, really, except that it was not a complaint. It could not have been, for he had his arms around me and was arching against me as I was against him, and I kissed him again. For a moment, two moments, three, it was perfect.

And then he pushed me away and drew a breath that sounded almost like a sob. I missed the warmth of his body against mine. I was cold, standing there in the middle of my room, and I realized that I was also filthy. Daniel was half in tears, in the same sorry state as I. “For God’s sake,” he said, pulling his jacket closed, though I had already seen the spreading stain on his trousers. “Never, never do that again. Please.”

I wanted to tell him that I wanted him, that I loved him, that I wanted a thousand other things from him, less shameful, less hurried, but I could feel the heat of my desire fading and sanity returning. “I’m sorry,” I said, surprised to find myself almost crying, as he was. “I won’t. I promise. I won’t say anything.”

Daniel didn’t look at me. “Neither will I. And don’t. Don’t kiss me.”

I bit my lip. How I wanted to hold him -- but he wanted nothing of the sort from me. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It -- it will be all right.” He left my room. It was much colder without him.

I built up the fire and heated water, then, blushing though no one was there to see me, I changed my clothing and washed myself, and my pants, and my rather pathetic shirt. No one came to chide me that night, nor the next, and when it seemed they had forgotten, I went with them to their meeting. No one said anything about the wonderful, awful mistake.

When the landlord came, demanding money I could hardly scrape together, Courfeyrac helped me leave. He must have been grateful to have me gone, out of his way. It was good, in a way, to be distant enough that I could never hear them talking through the wall and want to weep. 


	17. Correction (Feuilly): January, 1829

When Aimery went home for Christmas and the weeks thereafter, I expected to be heartsick and lonely, and so I prepared myself for the prospect of being alone in the darkest, longest nights of the year. He had promised me that whatever else made demands on his time, he would be with me on the night before he departed, and so I expected to have time to bid him farewell then. When I got up to leave that morning, I did not wake him to say goodbye, for we had something of an appointment in the evening.

I should have known that he would forget, that he would instead go off with Christophe or whomever it was and forgo my company entirely. Neither of them were in the Musain that night, in any case, although I had told Aimery I would meet him there. I waited until well past midnight while the midwinter cold settled in around me. I half-hoped that I would find Aimery waiting for me at my apartment, but it was as cold and dark as the streets outside.

There was no note from him the next day explaining his absence. He was already out of the city, surely, leaving me behind without half a thought. I missed him almost immediately, then wondered why I should when he so clearly felt nothing of the sort for me. The Musain's back room was almost empty that night; only Audric and Julien were not going to see their parents, and they were talking to each other in the soft, earnest tones that meant, to me, that they were thinking of nothing but each other.

Marius was there as well with crumpled sheets of paper around him. I sat at his table and smiled at him though I felt no mirth. He had been avoiding me for weeks. "Good evening, Marius."

He looked up and blushed when he recognized me. "Daniel."

"What are you doing?" I asked, as mildly as I could.

"I thought I would write a letter to my, my grandfather, telling him that I would not visit him for Christmas, but I can't phrase it properly." He crumpled the sheet in front of him, which only had three lines in ink.

"Ah." I knew nothing of his family, save that he had never spoken of them. "It seems to me that all you need to do is fail to visit, and he'll realize that you haven't reconciled with him, yet."

He sighed. "I suppose so."

Julien and Audric stood up, almost in unison, in the way of lovers who spend a great deal of time together. I felt an ache in my chest; to have that rapport with someone, that level of understanding and synchrony, seemed sweet and impossible. They put their winter clothing on and came over to bid us good night and happy Christmas. Audric embraced me briefly, and they went out, leaving Marius and me alone in a place where neither of us seemed to belong.

"Are you doing anything for the holiday?" he asked me when they had left.

"I've no family to visit," I said with a shrug, "so I suppose I'll go to midnight Mass for the company."

He blinked at me, and I admired him even in his bewilderment. Such a pretty boy. "I hadn't thought of that."

I did not have the heart to tell him I had been joking, and perhaps it had not been entirely a joke. "And you?"

"I don't know." He sighed and looked at the table, adorned with his failed efforts. "I haven't spent Christmas without my family before."

I wanted to tell him it would feel better in time, though that was not necessarily true; I wanted to reassure him that he would find someone else with whom to spend holidays, but I had been abandoned by my chosen family, and I could not say that the same thing would not happen to him. I looked at him in his pain, and I had no words to console him.

I leaned over and kissed him.

Who would see in the dead of winter? I knew my friends had gone home; I had said my farewells to all of them except Aimery, and if he should come in and see me kissing his foundling, to hell with him. Let him see, let him wish belatedly that he had held me the night before. I had no time to miss him, not with Marius suddenly in my arms, kissing me with a passion I had half-forgotten.

I had no desire to repeat the last kiss we had shared and its uncomfortable side effects, and so when he paused for breath I put a finger over his lips to forestall him. "We should go," I suggested.

He clung to me, as though if he let me go for an instant I would flee. "But -- Courfeyrac."

"I don't give a damn about Courfeyrac," I told him, as lightly as I could say it, although I knew I was lying.

"Don't you live with him?"

I laughed. "No more than you do."

He blushed at this. "I cannot let you see my lodgings."

"Whyever not?"

"They're horrid."

"Ah." I touched his cheek. "As are mine."

"No, they are." He looked away. "I've no money."

"Marius," I said softly, "do you think I'm rich? Do you think I'm moderately well-off? Not at all, _mon ami_. Every sou I have, I've earned; our dear friends could hardly say the same." Speaking of them made me dizzy with longing to have them all crowding around, loud and happy and distracting, such that I might not look at Marius, or want him. I could not bear the thought of being alone for weeks. Thus was my mad proposition born: "Come and live with me over Christmas. Keep me company."

He stared at me. "I'm sure I couldn't afford it."

I drew myself up, affecting the haughtiest expression I could. "I'm sure it's a present in honor of the season and I couldn't accept a sou."

"Daniel --"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure?"

I smiled a little. His resolve was weakening. "Yes."

"But Courfeyrac --"

"Courfeyrac be damned," I said with a wave of my hand, and for a moment, I meant it. He could do as he pleased, but I would not spend this month alone and wait for him.

"I thought you loved him," Marius said, very softly.

"So did I," I admitted -- how much to say to him, when I wanted him and needed something from him, when I was offering him such a gift? "He doesn't matter," I assured Marius, and I hoped that it would begin to be true.

"All right," he said rather nervously.

I wanted to see Aimery, then, in all his charm and confidence, not this nervous, vague boy who asked difficult questions. Instead, I kissed Marius again, then pulled away from his eager embrace. "Shall we fetch your things?"

"What things?" he asked bitterly. "I've sold everything I had, and I daren't leave my money in the flat."

"Your clothes?"

"What I'm wearing."

"Ah." I stood and offered him a hand up. "How much rent did you pay in advance?"

"To the end of the week." It was then Friday, and December was almost half gone.

"Come home with me?"

He stood and embraced me. "Ah, God, Daniel."

His innocence startled me almost as much as his poverty. His manners were those of a boy who has always had more than enough money, and who has never consorted with anyone with odder habits than our mutual friends, who had gone to some pains to behave in his presence. He knew of my love for Aimery; it was the most curious thing he had come upon in some time, and he could not fathom that I had changed my mind so quickly.

Perhaps I had not. I wanted to love him, for he was handsome and sweet, not in the calculated manner that Aimery sometimes had, and he was beginning to understand what it meant to have no money at all. Something held me back -- contempt, perhaps, for this boy who understood little and believed the improbable. I could not admit to myself that I had already given my heart away.

We slept entangled in my bed under all the blankets I could afford. He was eager to kiss me and whisper promises of adoration that I could not answer in kind, no matter that I would have liked to. I could not lie to him, not in that, though after the first week he frowned when I kissed him as an answer to his ready declarations of love.

Perversely, I was more comfortable naked with him than I had ever been with Aimery. With Marius, I was not outclassed and outmanned, dependent on his hospitality and his condescension. He was beautiful, but he knew nothing of the thousand arts Aimery had mastered.

We spent Christmas in bed, wrapped up in each other, eating the best food I could reasonably afford between making love and falling asleep again. It was not until dark that either of us remembered to wish the other a happy Christmas, and by then it hardly mattered. My mind was full of the loveliness of his face and the taste of good wine on his lips. It was the closest I came to being in love with him. He might have been one of the men I called brother, that day; I came close to saying it several times, but his politics were too muddled for that to be at all sensible. Not a brother, only a lover and a friend.

While we were together, he was more than enough to drive Aimery from my mind, but during the day I wished to see him, if only to curse him and tell him I would not tolerate him again. My memories of him were driven farther and farther away by the immediacy of Marius, his insistent kisses and constant presence. On New Year's I realized I had not dreamed of Aimery since I had last seen him.

On Twelfth Night, Marius was dejected, but would not explain until we were eating supper at home. "I suppose the Christmas gift is expired."

I had forgotten my ruse for a time, and I thought he had done the same. "Why do you say that?"

"The season has passed."

"You still need the present."

He stood, glaring at me, drawing every inch of bourgeois dignity that he still possessed to put me in my place. "I most certainly do not."

I sighed. "Sit down and finish eating, would you?" I had paid for the meal; he had so little money that I could not ask him to when I could easily afford it. My savings had been somewhat diminished by his presence, but I only had savings at all because of the time I had spent with Aimery, basking in his reflected luxury. 

"I don't need your charity," Marius said coldly, but he sat down and began eating again.

I shivered. I had no way to continue the earlier pretense, and no desire to turn him out. I could only think of one way to convince him to stay. " _Mon amour,_ " I said softly, "don't leave me."

He stared at me. I thought for one dizzy moment that he knew I was lying to him, that the endearment tasted of ashes in my mouth. I only wanted to help him, and he needed every bit of help he could find. If he should turn me down, he would be freezing on the streets in the middle of January. But his expression changed to tenderness and he took my hand across the table. " _Mon chéri,_ if I may stay --"

I swallowed the guilt -- how could I lie? because I had to -- and the pity for this dear boy who foolishly cared for me. "Of course you may."

The rest of dinner was cold before we got out of bed to finish it.

Not a week later, Aimery knocked on the door. Of course he chose the worst possible moment to do so, although the resulting embarrassment destroyed the passion of the moment. I was in no mood to see him and I had nothing at all to say to him. We went out, leaving Marius behind, as he had no part in the conversation.

I accused him of abandoning me without so much as a note.

He said he'd written two letters, apologizing for not being there when he said he would.

I stared at him. I laughed because I didn't dare cry, not in public, and I embraced him. We shared a bottle of wine. He told me about his time at home and his parents' idiocies, and I told him, briefly, of Marius. I could not help thinking of what I would tell Marius, how I would send him away without lying, without hurting him.

When I got home, I found that I had no such problem. The letters Aimery had sent me were there on my desk with a note from Marius reading simply, "I'm sorry." I never told Aimery by what agency his letters had been so delayed; there was nothing to gain in letting him know that I had broken Marius' heart on his behalf, and it would only irritate him. 

I did not see Marius again for months. When we met again, I spoke to him of nothing but politics. We had little else in common, after all. 


	18. Treasure (Courfeyrac): March, 1829

Daniel sleeps lightly, most of the time, but tonight he's worn out, and the lamplight falling across his face seems to bother him not at all. When I touch his cheek, his bare shoulder, he does not stir. His skin is smooth and faintly dry; his hair smells of paint and dust. Everything about him suggests austerity, a paring down to the core. He is a saint on the wall of some old chapel, angular and pure; he is a yellow wildflower, tough-stalked and tenacious. Beside him I feel coarse, excessive, vulgar, all flesh and its mundane demands, all weakness and dissolution. Daniel sparkles, always, with the clear, clean light of his spirit.

And he kisses me, tasting of water; he holds me in his arms as roots hold the earth, as heaven holds the moon, outside in the limitless darkness, and I can feel his heartbeat, strong and serene. Nothing hidden, my Daniel, no artifice, no affectation. How did such a treasure come to me? Why am I so lucky, that he stays? 


	19. Distance (Enjolras): March, 1829

Prouvaire speaks of _fraternité,_ Courfeyrac speaks of marriage, Joly speaks of all-encompassing love affairs. "I love you," they say to me, smiling across the table. "I would follow you anywhere," embracing me familiarly. "I trust you with my life," as they lean over to claim a kiss before I leave. 

Why can't I feel any of it? Why don't I care for them as they seem to care for me and for each other? They are my friends. I have seen each one of them naked and trembling, kissed and caressed them, accepted and returned their vows, and it meant something extraordinary to them. I can see that much, shining in their eyes; I can hear it in their words. Why can't I feel it in my heart? 

I can share their purpose and their dedication, but not the warmth that purpose fuels in them. I don't understand the half-mad determination in Feuilly's eyes when he speaks of what we will accomplish. I don't understand the tenderness that comes over rough-spoken Bahorel when he speaks of what we have already wrought. I don't understand Prouvaire and his habit of nestling against his neighbor's shoulder while we discuss kings and constitutions. Friends, allies, brothers, lovers: what Audric and I have done to them has made them impossibly close, impossibly full of hope. 

And I feel nothing. 

Even Audric sees more in it than I do; like the others, he speaks of love. They are my friends, but I love none of them, except him. He spends at least one night in a week in someone else's bed. I know that if I asked him to, he would refrain; but I have no right to do that, and I would scarcely deny him anything that brings him happiness. 

Besides, I consented to all of this from the beginning. He suggested, and I agreed -- or perhaps I suggested, and he only took me at my word. I can hardly remember now; we think so nearly alike, so much of the time. Or we did, then. 

Every now and then he seems to come to himself as though from a long dream. He takes me in his arms, vows his love for me anew. "Julien, _mon adoré,_ I am yours--" and I never know how to answer him. I love him, yes, but I am not his, and he is not mine. We both belong to something greater. 

If he were mine, he would not go from my arms to Aimery's. If I were his, I would never have kissed Jehan, never have pressed my body to his and bidden him in the name of the Republic to take his pants off. 

Sometimes I despise myself. 

And sometimes I want desperately to feel what they feel. I want the closeness, the delight, the passion that I see among them. I want to be able to see the joy in this, instead of only weariness and shame. 


	20. Consolation (Courfeyrac): April, 1829

Even from across the room I can see the tension between them. Enjolras has on his Grecian-marble face; the boy's seldom so lovely as when he's fuming. And poor Combeferre is smoldering with simple human frustration -- as who wouldn't, faced with that frosty calm? They're too close, those two. More than brothers, more than lovers, inseparable as a man and his shadow -- but which is the shadow? 

Watching them from across the room with eyes as attentive as any lover's, I have my own suspicions. 

Combeferre pushes back his chair and stands; though it looks civil enough, there's a stiffness in his shoulders as he turns to leave. Enjolras doesn't even watch him go, but when the door has shut the air of regal disinterest deserts him, and he buries his face in his hands. From wrathful godling to lost little boy, in a blink. 

I've an idea of what they were arguing about, and it's mostly my doing. I ought to do something to mend it. So I stand, leaving my half-empty glass where it sits, and cross the room to him. "Julien?" 

He looks up. "Courfeyrac." 

"Always so formal. D'you mind if I join you?" 

"I suppose not." 

I slide into the vacant seat. "Pontmercy?" 

He blinks, and then shakes his head ruefully. "How did you know?" 

"Easily guessed, _mon ami_." 

"I tried to explain." Enjolras rubs his temples. "I know you think well of him, but--" 

"I think he's a likable dolt, and he'd never do. You can tell Combeferre I told you so." 

He laughs in spite of himself. "Thank you. I wish it were quite that easy." 

"Why not?" 

"He'll need time to cool off." Enjolras says it calmly, resigned and patient. The way a man speaks of his wife; the way a woman speaks of her husband. "It isn't just Pontmercy, you know. It's... a number of things." 

"I see." God, he looks so tired, so bereft, that my heart aches for him. Even the expression is like Combeferre's, when he walked out just now. As close as we are, all of us, no one's ever quite touched what's between them, not even Prouvaire, not even me. And damn it, I love them both. "Are you going home tonight, then?" 

Enjolras shrugs. "Where else?" 

I love them both, but this one is sitting before me, and he looks so close to breaking. "Come with me?" 

He looks at me warily. Perhaps because of Combeferre, perhaps simply by nature, he has always held a little aloof from the rest of us. A trifle incongruous, maybe, in one who laid down the unwritten rules of our fraternity, and who has made intent and breathtaking love to each of us in turn, to bind us to our purpose. But that's his right. 

Still, a man can try. "Come home with me, Julien, for tonight. You look... like you could use the company." 

"He'll worry," Enjolras says to the tab letop. 

As though Combeferre's never left you alone for a night, dear friend? "He knows none of us would let you come to harm. Come home with me. I'm worried about you myself." 

Third time is the charm. Almost imperceptibly, he relaxes, lets out a tiny sigh. "All right." 

And so, an hour later, I find myself in Enjolras' arms for the second time in my life. His skin is as soft as I remember it; he has the same faint sweet scent, and the same sudden turn of his head, as though shocked by his own passion. But we are alone tonight, with no silent friends to bear witness to what we do, in case I should someday go to the police. Tonight it is only Julien and I. 

He lacks the cool confidence of the previous occasion. He is tentative, nervous, seeming almost fragile in the lamplight, and he can hardly bring himself to meet my eyes. And afterward, with his face half-hidden against my shoulder: 

"Aimery?" 

"Yes?" 

A long silence. "I don't know if we're right, sometimes. In any of this. In what we do." 

Does he even realize his lover asked me the same thing, months ago, nestled just as close beside me, in almost the same voice? Will I ever understand either of them? 

"I think so," I tell him, as I told Combeferre. "At least-- I don't think we're wrong. I-- God, it shouldn't work, but it does, doesn't it? I would die for you, for any of you, as readily as I would for--" 

"--for the cause," Enjolras finishes, and sighs. "For liberty." 

"Equality." 

"Fraternity..." 

"Kiss me, brother. Go to sleep." 

Never understand either of them. But God, do I love them. 


	21. Searching (Enjolras): April, 1829

I did not leave Aimery's until well past noon. I had woken toward dawn, as one will in a strange bed, and found him peacefully asleep with his arm around my waist, for all the world as though it belonged there. I spared a moment for guilt, and then went promptly back to sleep. When I woke again, the sun was pouring through the window and Aimery was stretched on his side, gazing at me.

It should have been Audric beside me. It had never been anyone else, except those few nights -- and even then, Audric had been with me, had gone to sleep with me and our newly-pledged friend. Waking without him was terribly strange; and, more terribly still, not unpleasant. Aimery smiled at me as I opened my eyes. Despite myself, I smiled back. "Morning."

"Good morning, _mon frère_. How did you sleep?"

"Quite well, thank you." 

"Good." He touched my hair gently. The gesture was so like Audric's that I sat up abruptly, before I could lose my composure. 

"I... thank you, Aimery. For-- everything."

  
"Don't mention it." He sprawled naked amid the blankets, entirely at ease. "Are you going already?"

I could feel myself beginning to blush. "It's late."

"Can't be ten yet."

"Audric--"  


"Ah," he said mildly, "well, yes, Audric."

"I should get home," I said, but even to my own ears it lacked conviction. Audric would be wondering where I was, perhaps even worrying, but the thought of confronting him flooded me with weariness. It seemed as though we had been having the same set of arguments for months, and getting nowhere.

Aimery's voice was soft. "Another hour or so won't make much difference, will it?" I looked back at him. He was watching me with bright, intent eyes, half-smiling. He reached out a hand to me. "Stay a while, Julien."

It was damnably tempting. I hesitated, and Aimery took my hand in his. "Sweet friend," he said. "Please?"

I capitulated. "An hour then." 

It was an hour well spent, by his lights; even, I suppose, by Audric's. Somewhere in the midst of it, before I was quite overcome, I found myself thinking as I had thought the night before, _This is what it is, this is what they feel, this is what I have missed._ Something so close, so joyous-- Then it passed, and was lost in a rush of mere sensation.

After, I lay in his arms for a little, while my heart slowed and he ran his fingers through my hair as though he were stroking a favorite cat. I did not want to abandon that comfort; but I had stayed far too long already. When I could move again, I disentangled myself gently and sat up. "I need to be going." 

"Not without breakfast, you're not." 

"Aimery--" 

"You need it, brother. It's past the hour, and you've been exerting yourself--"

"Aimery!"

"And now I've offended you." He grinned at me, unrepentant. "A thousand pardons. Let me make it up to you. Your shirt's by the foot of the bed, I think."

So that was another hour. We sat by the window and talked of nothing in particular, nothing too personal or too pressing. He took leave of me with a chaste embrace, as though he knew that any further intimacy would be too much. I left in an almost cheerful frame of mind. 

When I got home, Audric was at his desk, his head bent over his books. Evidently he was not too absorbed, for he stood as soon as I entered. "Good afternoon." 

"Good afternoon," I said, and shut the door behind me.

"Did you have a good night?" he said coolly. I shrugged, and went to sort out my own papers, unwilling to confront him, but he persisted. "Where did you go?"

"To Aimery's. I thought it best not to disturb you."

"Ah," he said in a rather different tone, and: "I'm sorry."

I shrugged again -- I think as much to vex him as anything. As long as he was angry with me, there was no good reason to feel guilty. "What for?"

"I -- everything. For doing that to you, however many times I've done it." His tone grew acidic. "At least I told you where I was."

"Perhaps," I said sharply, "I should have come home and asked your permission first."

Audric hesitated a little. "I-- I wouldn't have told you not to. But I was worried about you." Behind his irritation, he sounded hurt. I did not trust myself to look at him.

"I can look after myself, Audric."

"As well as I can. As well as anyone, but something could have happened. How was I to know where you were?"

It was logic, of a sort. It shook me, in my brittle state, as did the frustration in his tone. I could not quite keep the tremor out of my voice. "I have to go." I picked up my book and turned, only to see him standing there with arms outstretched, silently offering an embrace. 

I was in no mood to be won over; and yet something in me longed for the comfort of that embrace, and I found myself in his arms without quite knowing how I got there. He buried his face in my shoulder. "God, _chéri_ , I'm sorry."

"It's all right." I could think of nothing else to say. Though I was holding him as tightly as if we had forgiven each other, I felt curiously detached, indifferent, as though he were a stranger. He must have sensed that, for he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I hate fighting with you," I said, which was true enough.

He stroked my hair tentatively. "That isn't what I meant. I mean -- why did you...?"

"Because I hate fighting with you. I--" I did not know how to say what I meant: that we quarrelled more and more lately; that he had abandoned me in the café and Aimery had offered me consolation, sympathy, understanding; that he, who had left me alone so often in favor of Aimery's company, should surely comprehend the attraction. "Do I need a reason?"

Audric let me go, reddening. "No -- of course you don't. I just thought you found the very concept distasteful. I can't imagine what would have given me that impression." 

Perhaps he did not mean it spitefully, but the words stung. I turned away again. "I have to go."

"I don't understand. Please --"

"I don't want to discuss it. I'm going to be late, Audric--"

"That isn't fair," he protested. "I didn't -- I've never surprised you quite like this."

Which was also true, so far as it went, and I had to acknowledge it, even as I swung the door open. "All right, I'm sorry. I'll see you later."

"Oh? You're not going to disappear on me again?"

I slammed the door shut again, suddenly out of patience. "Perhaps you'd rather I did."

  
"I didn't say that," he said, softly, maddeningly softly. Next it would be, _Calm down, Julien._

"You were upset with me, and he asked -- damn it all. You left me there. I assumed that meant you knew I could fend for myself."

"I hardly expected you to --" Audric faltered, blushing, and concluded sheepishly, "to do what I would have done in the same circumstances."

"Yes," I said dryly. At least he could admit that much.

More gently, he said, "Can you blame me for being concerned?"

"I suppose not." At some level, I knew I should reach out to him, make some attempt at peacemaking, but I could not find it in me to try, then, or even to care very much. More than anything, I felt vastly tired. "I am going to be late."

Audric sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll see you later."

All through that day I avoided thinking about him, or about Aimery. The weariness that had lifted in Aimery's company had settled on me again, with remorse added to its weight. I had done nothing more than Audric routinely did; still, I was ashamed of myself, for giving way to what had been little more than lust and self-pity. 

Yet that moment of pure delight--

Such thoughts were treacherous. I put them from me as best I could, and concentrated on the day's affairs. When I returned home it was quite late, and Audric had gone to bed. I undressed in silence, in the dark, and got under the covers beside him.

He was not asleep. He was looking at me in the faint light from the window, frowning a little, though he said nothing. I could find no accusation in his face, only worry; and the last of my vexation seeped away.

  
This was my beloved, my dearest friend, my brother-- always far more patient with me than I was with him, far more forgiving than I had deserved. I could not speak. I reached out to him, embraced him, felt the comforting contour of his shoulder against my cheek, the familiar texture of his skin. He sighed, and ran his fingers through my hair. " _Mon coeur_ ," he said. 

Only that, but my heart eased finally, hearing it. " _Chéri_ ," I murmured, and remembered nothing more.

  


* * * * *

  


That was the last time for a long while that I slept soundly. The quarrels were fewer, but my restlessness, if anything, grew stronger. I began leaving the café early, only so that I could take the long way home and walk off some of the tension that simmered in me. On nights that Audric spent at home, I kept him awake with fidgeting; when he tried to ask what ailed me, I forestalled him with kisses. Lovemaking solved nothing, but it left me tired enough to sleep. Certainly it was no longer a pleasure so much as an escape.

It was not surprising, then, that Audric began to spend more of his nights elsewhere. He was as graceful about it as ever, speaking to me the morning before, kissing me tenderly before he departed with Aimery. Nevertheless I felt his absence.

Toward the end of April he developed a cough, not terribly serious, but sufficient to keep him at home in bed for most of the day. I tended him as best I could, and tried to keep my impatience in check. I wanted things I could not define, and chafed at burdens I could not name, but there was no need to trouble Audric with my fancies.

I made Prouvaire my proposal out of sheer impulse. Audric was well enough to come to Musain that evening, but still felt poorly enough to leave early and put his cold to bed. I might have asked Aimery instead, whom I trusted more fully, but he had gone home too -- bored by the conversation, I think, though he made excuses with his customary grace. And that left me alone with Prouvaire.

The youngest of us, our _petit frère_ , he still had a childishness that was vexing at times. His theatrical airs, his fits of petulance, his chatter, all grated on my nerves. And yet he was my brother no less than Aimery was. Watching him, listening to him rattle on about Aeschylus, I saw him suddenly in a flash of memory: sixteen years old, innocent and bewildered in our bedroom, talking of sunsets.

He broke off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bore you."

"No, it's all right. I'm just-- tired, I suppose." More tired than he could guess; tired of the company of my own thoughts, that went round in circles. "Jehan--"

I never called him Jehan. I startled myself, and perhaps startled him too, for he blinked at me. "Yes?"

"Do you have plans for tonight?"

The quick color sprang to his cheeks. "No, I've no plans."

"Ah." I thought about it for a moment. "I would ask you to come home with me, but I don't want to disturb Audric."

Jehan giggled; there was no other word for it. "You are quite welcome to accompany me, if you want to."

He lived by himself, that year, in a garret not terribly far from the cafe, amid books and portfolios and forgotten love-tokens and a rather weedy-looking pot of lavender. He let me in, apologizing for the clutter in the lighthearted way of a boy whose apologies have always been accepted.

But when the door shut, I found myself inexplicably embarrassed. I should not have been; this was nothing we had not done before, and he was no one I needed to fear. 

He laid a soft hand on my shoulder. "If you'd rather go..."

"I didn't say that." The room was close, smelling of lavender and of something else, warmer, less definable. I embraced him, and heard him chuckle. "I don't want to impose on you--"

"Julien, don't be silly. You're welcome to stay." His fingers caressed the back of my neck, with subtlety I did not expect from him; I caught my breath. "I love you," he said softly.

As they all said. As none of them had a right to say, except for Audric. I buried my face in his shoulder. "I don't understand. Help me understand."

Jehan stroked my hair. We were back to the beginning; except that this time, I was the innocent. He kissed me, called me sweet brother, drew me toward the bed and rid me of my clothes with distressing dexterity. I had been half expecting the same awkward boy who had kissed me years before. This was another Jehan entirely, one who knew his own desires to a nicety and had a very fair idea of mine, and who, once he understood my hesitation, smiled and undertook to teach me what he had learned. His hands were warm and smooth; his body weighed light in my arms.

Almost, almost I understood.

But it slipped away, and I was left with nothing but the smell of sweat and Jehan's hazy, complacent smile.

  


* * * * *

  


It was no use. There was nothing for me in their arms: no comfort, no absolution, no real intimacy. What I had been seeking was not to be found; perhaps it did not exist.

Nevertheless I went back, more than once, like a child following the rainbow, like a man without faith casting prayers at the sky; and they did not turn me away. I stayed a second night with Aimery, and a third; and on the third night, as I lay spent against his shoulder, the tears came to my eyes.

He must have felt it, though I had not made a sound. His fingers touched my cheek, light as breath. "Julien. Brother. What is it?"

"I don't know," I whispered. Aimery pulled me close, and held me while I struggled for self-control. When I could speak again, I said, "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" 

"You and Audric." He tensed in my arms. "You and Daniel -- Jean and Christophe -- It means something to you. Beyond what I always thought it did. The way you look at one another-- I don't understand that. I want to, but I can't."

"It's only love," he said gently.

"I don't love you," I said. The words fell starkly into silence. "I-- I am not one of you, not really."

"Of course you are." Aimery sat up a little, as though I had said something genuinely shocking. "Of course you are, brother."

"No."

He kissed me then, before I could prevent him, and said over again the words of the vow he had spoken years before; and I answered him in kind, sick at heart, knowing how much the empty phrases meant to him. After that he seemed reassured, and I could not bring myself to discomfit him again. I slept badly that night, and left before he woke the next morning. 

Audric had been sleeping, too, but he stirred when I opened the door, and greeted me in a hazy voice. I went and sat down on the bed beside him, and he took me in his arms. "What's wrong?"

  
My conscience tore at me. What had I done to deserve his welcome, much less his concern?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I've been a fool."

Lightly, as if it did not much matter, he said, "Why, what have you done?" 

"Oh-- I've been looking for castles in the air, thinking that if I could only find them I would be home."

He kissed my cheek. "I love you."

"And I love you." I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to look at him. "It's taken me this long to remember that."

"But you remembered," he said softly, and I felt his hand against my hair. There was love in that touch, and no censure in his voice. For a moment, for the first time in too many months, it seemed that we were one; and I knew that I would not go back to Aimery again.


	22. Uncouth (Grantaire): April, 1829

If he were as cold in bed as he is the rest of the time, he wouldn't have nearly so many lovers. Though it rather suits him, no one wants to sleep with a boy that distant. There's a temptation in it, for there's passion and madness in him. All one would have to do is wake them, quell the boy who'd rather talk about politics with a kiss and make him lose that torrent of words in desire. He's far too pretty to sleep alone, too upstanding and reserved for anyone to refrain from imagining him on his back, begging to be fucked. 

I've seen him leave with too many of them to believe he's a virgin. No man that lovely who's shared so many beds can possibly be innocent. They're all worse idiots than I thought if he is as pure as he looks. His pet doctor is all smiles and kind words; that's proof enough that Julien's not as chaste as he'd like to seem, for no one could be good-humored living with him as Tristan slept by Isolde, with the flaming sword of some god or another to separate them. 

And yet Audric is stupid enough to leave Julien, to sleep with Aimery -- or at least to go home with him, and every now and then when he thinks I'm fast asleep, to kiss his illicit lover in the back room of a dingy café. Not that Aimery is without his own charms, but he's nothing next to Julien. Audric doesn't deserve what he has. 

Julien has slept with Aimery, I expect, same as he's had all the rest of them. What privilege is that, what right of the rights of man, that allows these boys to kiss him? If all I had to do to have that same right was give some fool speech about voting and kings and similar nonsense, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Who wouldn't with that boy as the prize for recitation? Smart of them to set up a system like that. Égalité, fraternité, and lovely naked men, all in one. Anyone in his right mind would fall to one knee and pledge fealty to the bedamned Republic if he could suck Julien while he was there, draw a little hardness out of his fine marble countenance, destroy that implacable restraint, and listen to him cry out. 

Surely he is as passionate naked as he is when he's giving his speeches. A tongue so carefully trained for rhetoric would doubtless make short work of any man's cock. And he does want to give us equality, doesn't he? As we all came from between a woman's thighs, let us all find a little joy between those of a beautiful boy. What gods does he swear to when he comes, or are they gods at all? Calling out to Jean-Jacques, Maximilien, Camille -- he ought to have chosen his multitude of lovers more carefully, to coincide with those doddering idols. 

Far better to make him forget his politics for a time. Let the aristocrat turned liberator find himself subjugated for a while. It is not so terrible, Julien, not in the name of pleasure. Égalité be damned; give me a night with him and I'll forbear to share him after with any man, republican, royalist, or dullard. It's maddening to see him go off with this one or that, as if they can give him what he needs. They encourage his politics and leave him for someone else, as if they don't see the tragic waste in leaving him alone at midnight or the persuasion they might effect with enough care. 

Ah, but I could do it. A little wine would dull the sharp edges of the words he uses to defend his honor. Let me but kiss him, let him come to my bed and I will hurt him only a very little, only enough to show him that his principles are madness when he calls on unfaithful friends to defend them. I could give him a little doubt, enough to protect him against the flame of those ideals he holds dear, and I would give him such pleasure if only he'd let me. 

Does he only fuck the men he trusts, or only trust the men he fucks? Either way, I ought to be on his list, for the boy's own good. They're all too devoted to their Republic and their other loves. He needs someone to remind him what things are, and what things aren't going to be, no matter how lovely he is. They lie to him every night he has to sleep alone. He ought to see that as a betrayal and find someone who'd never leave him for anyone else.


	23. Malice: April, 1829

For the last three days, Chrétien has been abed with a flu or stomach ailment or possibly chicken pox, but most likely all three. Bossuet has been taking care of him to the best of his abilities based on this changing diagnosis. When at last Chrétien emerges from his sickbed and is able to attend a meeting, Bossuet of course accompanies him, smiling and gently teasing him about his diseases.

Jehan greets Bossuet with a kiss that makes Chrétien avert his eyes in annoyance and Julien glare, and for half the meeting sits beside him with a hand on his knee, reinforced with the occasional whisper of "Don't go, _chéri_. Not tonight." Meanwhile Chrétien sneezes into his handkerchief and seems little better for all he's been horizontal. Partway through the meeting, Christophe arrives without a single apology for his tardiness. With half a glance at Bossuet, Jehan goes to sit with Christophe and share the wine and bread that pass for his supper.

An hour and a half pass before the meeting breaks up. As soon as Julien and Audric are out the door, Jehan is in Christophe's embrace, the recipient of a reckless kiss.

Bossuet blinks after him, and leans back in his chair with a faint sigh, looking away.

Chrétien coughs sharply, presumably from the smoky fire. "Well."

"Oh, Christophe," Jehan exclaims, not half softly enough, in the rapt voice he is wont to use in such situations. "We shouldn't -- not here."

Christophe grins at him. "We can go."

"Going to be a cold night," Chrétien remarks, to no one in particular, a little too clearly. Bossuet gives him a look, then pushes away from the table and stands, heading for the door without a word.

As Théo opens the door, Jehan giggles. "You're terrible, _chéri_!"

"Not half as terrible as I'd like to be," Christophe says, almost mildly. "Come on, then?"

"Yes, go be picturesque elsewhere, why don't you?" Chrétien coughs again. "D'you want company, Théo?"

"No," brusquely, and the door shuts.

Jehan glowers at Chrétien. "You can leave, yourself, as you're the only one complaining."

Chrétien glares back. "Because I'm complaining doesn't mean you're behaving well."

"Don't mind him," Christophe says to Jehan. "We ought to go." He shrugs a little at Chrétien, as if asking for forgiveness or possibly demonstrating that he doesn't care.

"I don't want to." Jehan begins to pout. "He always gets everything he wants."

Chrétien shoves back his chair violently. "Yes, and I don't have to whine for it, either. Good night, Christophe."

Christophe's mild, "Good night, Chrétien," is more than drowned out by Jehan's, "Go to hell!"

The door shuts behind Chrétien much more loudly than it did after Bossuet.

Jehan glares at the door a moment before he gives up and kisses Christophe as though he were not angry. 

"Jehan," Christophe says afterward, "if you want to go home --"

"That's not my home. Come with me?"

Christophe shrugs. "All right."

* * * * *

Chrétien shows up alone the following night, sneezing much less. He spends most of the evening talking to Aimery and Audric, pointedly ignoring Jehan. After a couple of hours and a good deal of wine, he leaves with Aimery in search of other company.

Jehan orders himself dinner and sits alone at a table, poking at it. Audric, Daniel, and Julien flip through a beleaguered tome and occasionally quote from it, but they do not seem to notice Jehan's disaffection.

After half an hour of this, Audric breaks away from the discussion and taps Jehan on the shoulder. "Would you like to --"

Jehan stands up. "Not at all. Good night." He gathers his things and storms down the passageway into the front room, where although it is loud, it is at least impersonally loud.

Bossuet is there, ensconced in a corner, solitary and silent, staring at the floor. He does not look to have slept much.

It takes Jehan a few moments to notice him. When he does, he swears under his breath, hands off the cold remains of his dinner to a passing waitress, and takes a seat at Bossuet's table withut saying a word.

Bossuet looks up sharply, and blinks at him.

Jehan puts his head in his hands. "You can live with him, if you want. As long as you want to. God knows you don't want to be anywhere near me."

"Not if I have to watch you climb all over Christophe." Bossuet scarcely sounds like himself: hoarse, surly, contemptuous. "Not then. I'll sleep in the street first."

"At least he treats me honestly. Damn you."

"Oh. Really? When did I toy with you, _petit_? When did I whisper in your ear, Stay for me, and then go off and amuse myself with some swaggering lout with well-lined pockets?"

Jehan stands up in a red-faced fury but keeps his voice low. "You were fawning all over Chrétien while he pretended to sneeze into a lace-edged hankie. Pardon me for being tired of his nonsensical 'illnesses,' but of course you'll pardon me nothing because you are entirely too caught up in him."

"At least," bitterly, "he treats me honestly. _I'll_ pardon you nothing? You sleep with Aimery and Chris, I don't get angry; you snipe at Chrétien, I don't say anything; if you threw me over entirely," growing tremulous, "I wouldn't blame you. I'd forgive you anything but this, this was--" He shuts his eyes tightly, resting his head in one hand. "If you're tired of me, say so, but you don't have to torment me."

Jehan falters. "Théo -- Théo, come home with me? I can't talk to you here."

Bossuet's shoulders hunch. "And if I did, would we find somebody waiting?" trying, not very successfully, to keep his voice steady.

"Of course not." Jehan reaches toward him. "Please, _mon ami_."

Bossuet puts his face in his hands for a moment, then takes Jehan's hand blindly and gets to his feet.

Jehan thumps him on the shoulder as though he would actually be capable of half-carrying Bossuet anywhere. "Come on, then. You've been drinking entirely too much," loudly, for the benefit of everyone else.

"Haven't," but he allows himself to be maneuvered out the door, uncomplaining.

Jehan puts an arm around his waist once they're partway down the street. "I was stupid," he admits softly.

Bossuet shrugs, without pulling away, inexpressibly hopeless, though no longer teary.

Jehan catches at his sleeve. "I was stupid and cruel. Oh, Théo --"

Bossuet stops and looks at him, brow furrowed. " _Cher_..."

Jehan gives him a watery look. "I don't deserve you, darling."

Bossuet winces, and looks at the pavement.

Jehan touches his shoulder lightly.

There is a tense pause, and then Bossuet embraces him fiercely.

Jehan hugs him back.

"Oh, God," in a broken whisper. "Don't play with me. I love you too much. I can't, I--"

"And I love you," softly. "But I can be a horrible fool. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"God." Bossuet takes a deep breath, hugging him tightly. "And you know, don't you, you know I can't stay angry with you."

"I'm sorry," again. "I love you."

"I adore you," on the end of a sigh.

"Come home with me."

Bossuet lets him go with a wan smile. "Since you ask so charmingly--"

Jehan squeezes his hand. "Please?"

"I suppose I can make time. In my busy schedule," returning the squeeze.

Jehan smiles a little. "Come and stay?"

"If you'll have me," softly.

"Gladly, _cher_."

Bossuet smiles a bit. "Lead on."

Jehan nuzzles him. "All right, _mon ami_."


	24. Parting: May, 1829

It is perhaps an hour before the meeting in the Café Musain is due to begin. The warm breath of May suffuses Paris with a sort of blurry glow as the evening begins to settle over buildings and streets. Feuilly has three streaks of purple over his left temple, and one of green over the right -- he has been painting lilac groves. He nods to the concierge on the ground floor of a building, then goes up several flights of stairs and knocks lightly on Courfeyrac's door.

"Yes?" cheerfully from within.

"It's me. May I come in?"

"Of course, Daniel."

Feuilly walks in and shuts the door behind himself, then stands in front of it. "Good evening."

Courfeyrac is already on his feet, coming over to greet him with a hug. "Evening, yourself."

Feuilly hugs him more tentatively than is his wont, and lets go more quickly than usual. "Um. Aimery?"

Courfeyrac looks at him quizzically. "Yes?"

"I -- won't be around, as much as I have been." Feuilly looks at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Oh?" Courfeyrac reaches out to brush gently at the smudges on his temples, affectionately. "Why's that?"

"Her name's Rosalie," Feuilly admits after a moment or two. "I'm sorry."

Courfeyrac blinks, then laughs. "Is it, now."

"Yes. I --" Feuilly hugs him without the reserve of a few moments before.

Courfeyrac returns the embrace tightly, smiling. "That took you long enough, didn't it?"

Feuilly blushes. "I had other things on my mind -- and other places to be."

"Of course you did." Courfeyrac grins at him.

Feuilly touches his cheek. "I don't mean to abandon you."

Courfeyrac kisses his fingers lightly. "Ah, _mon ami,_ I know that." And then, irrepressible, "Is she pretty?"

"Not as pretty as you are handsome," softly.

Courfeyrac blinks, then chuckles again and kisses him lightly. "And if you're as gallant as that with her, small wonder she's fallen for you."

Feuilly makes a small discontented sound. "I'm sorry," he says, again.

"My dear fellow, whatever for?"

"Brushing you off like this."

"It's all right, Daniel. For heaven's sake."

Feuilly frowns. "All right. If you say so."

Courfeyrac caresses his cheek briefly. "Come and see me every now and then, that's all. Let me know how you're getting along."

"I'll see you at the meetings, of course."

"Well, yes."

Feuilly looks away. "I think perhaps it would be best if I didn't visit."

"Ah." Courfeyrac is quiet a moment. "All right, then."

"I ought to make some attempt at fidelity, _n'est-ce pas?_ " Feuilly half smiles at him.

Courfeyrac smiles back, it seems genuinely. "There's a thought."

Feuilly bites his lip. "I'm sorry."

"Daniel. It's all right, _mon frère._ " Courfeyrac goes to sit down on the bed, and holds out a hand to him. "Sit with me a moment."

Feuilly sits down an arm's reach away. "If it's all right, it's all right. I suppose."

"Don't worry so much."

Feuilly puts his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "I suppose what I really came to say is goodbye, then."

"Only to this that we've had." Courfeyrac reaches out to smooth his hair lightly. "And does this matter so much?"

"I don't know. Does it matter to you?"

"Not half so much as the rest, love."

Feuilly sits up and takes his hand. "Good."

Courfeyrac grins crookedly, and squeezes his fingers. "Good, then."

"We should probably go."

"Yes, probably." Courfeyrac makes no immediate move to rise.

"I -- damn."

" _Je t'aime,_ " softly. "Brother. It's all right. Shall we go?"

"I want to kiss you," Feuilly says, giving him a nervous look. "But if I do that, we'll be late."

Courfeyrac smiles a bit. "Will we, d'you think?"

"I should think so."

"Well." He looks at his hands a moment, uncharacteristically shy. "I don't think there's anything important to discuss tonight."

Feuilly gets up. "Still, we should go."

Courfeyrac takes in a breath, and lets it out again. "All right." After a moment, he stands.

In another moment, Feuilly goes to the door and looks at the knob as though he's never seen one before. "Where are your keys?" he asks.

"On the desk," absently.

Feuilly nods, then gets them and locks the door from the inside. "Better."

Courfeyrac glances at him, bright-eyed. "Oh?"

"We don't miss meetings that often."

"That's true."

Feuilly's shoulders are slightly hunched. He doesn't quite look at Courfeyrac. "And it's only the once."

"Also true." Courfeyrac crosses the room quietly and takes him by the shoulders. " _Mon ami-- mon chéri._ "

"I'm going to miss you," Feuilly says, giving him a level look.

Courfeyrac smiles. "Not for very long."

Feuilly embraces him. "I'll miss this."

"Ah, Daniel," kissing his rumpled hair. "It will be worth it."

"I hope so."

Courfeyrac pats his shoulder. "Have confidence."

"I do." Feuilly kisses him. It is quite obvious that whatever the rationale for this affair with a young lady is, it has nothing to do with diminished passion.

Courfeyrac returns the kiss wholeheartedly, pulling him close.

" _Je t'aime,_ " Feuilly says after a few minutes. "I should tell her I'm busy. I should --"

"You should let me make love to you," pressing a series of kisses along his hairline, "so that when the time comes, you're certain what to ask of her. What _does_ she look like, by the way?"

Feuilly shivers. "You can't do that and ask that at the same time. I can't think."

Courfeyrac pauses. "All right, so come to bed and then tell me."

"Aimery --" Feuilly takes a deep breath. "Remind me, beloved, not to introduce the two of you."

"Oh?" Laughter brightens his tone. "Why not?"

"I don't think I could bear to share a bed with you," using the plural.

Courfeyrac tugs him in that direction. "No? What a pity."

" _Chéri_ \--" as he sits on the bed. "I don't want to be too intimate with her, too quickly."

"All right. I'm sorry. I'll behave myself."

Feuilly mock frowns. "Don't do that."

"All right, I won't. What's your coat doing still on?"

"Getting in the way." He takes it off.

Courfeyrac shifts to assist him with his pants, meanwhile.

Feuilly shakes his head, laughing. "Impatient, are we?"

"I thought we were," caressing him. "Unless I'm vastly mistaken--"

"And here I thought we had all night."

"All right." Courfeyrac lets him go, keeping only a hand on his shoulder. "In your own sweet time then, lover."

Feuilly embraces him and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat. "I suppose it doesn't much matter how quickly one sheds clothing."

"In this instance, no," kissing his ear.

"Might as well get it over with," with a resigned sigh.

Courfeyrac laughs. "Such a chore."

"Not an unpleasant one." Feuilly nibbles his neck lightly.

"God, Daniel," on the crest of a sigh.

"Hmm?"

"You're lovely. Wonderful." His fingers fumble with Feuilly's collar. "D'you know that?"

Feuilly blushes. "Thank you for saying so."

"So sweet, so gentle, so damned handsome-- God, Daniel." Courfeyrac sounds quite impassioned.

"Aimery, please."

"What, _cher_?"

"You don't have to compliment me." Feuilly kisses his cheek.

Courfeyrac returns the kiss. "Ah, but I do. I couldn't bear for you to leave in the morning, not knowing how you delight me."

"And if you succeed in assuring me that I delight you, what makes you think I'll want to leave?"

"The struggling vestige of my common sense," easing him out of his shirt.

Feuilly embraces him again. "Ah. Tell it to go away."

Courfeyrac sinks back against the pillows, pulling Feuilly down with him. "No need. You're seeing to that nicely."

"Ah, good." Feuilly kisses him yet again. 


	25. Enmity: May, 1830

On a mild May evening, Joly arrives early at the cafe. He pauses in the doorway when he recognizes the only other person present, and seems on the verge of leaving again; then he grits his teeth, and shuts the door behind him.

Prouvaire looks up from the book he's reading, then back at it as though he does not recognize Joly.

Joly slides into a seat on the other side of the room, with a stifled sigh, and runs his fingers through his hair.

Prouvaire yawns prodigiously.

"Good evening," Joly says neutrally.

Prouvaire glances at him and nods formally. "Joly."

Joly looks out the window, thereafter.

After several minutes of silence, Prouvaire asks, "How is Bossuet?" His tone is not exactly neutral, but not precisely provocative either.

A wary look. "I would think you would know that better than I do."

"You saw him just last night -- or was it this morning?"

"Don't you pay attention?" Joly shoots back, unwisely.

Prouvaire glares at him. "It wasn't this morning, or you'd be in a better mood than this. What's the matter, is he ill? Has he caught -- what is it, today? Influenza? The black plague? The English disease?"

Joly's ears go red in the beginning of an unlovely flush. "If he has, we know who to blame."

"Of course. I'm sure you're the only one I know who'd contract such a thing." Prouvaire looks back at his book to hide the fact that he is also red in the face.

Joly clenches a hand to keep it from shaking. "I'm sure you'd know. Pity your manners aren't as pretty as your face."

"My manners? I was asking after Bossuet, and you would only tell me that I ought to know." Prouvaire gives him a black look. "I hardly think I am at fault."

"Of course not. _Innocent_ Jehan."

"I've done nothing to you." Prouvaire slams his book shut.

"Of course not. Only taken against me from the minute you laid eyes on me, only sniped at me like a jealous chambermaid, only hung on Theo's arm all the time as though I was going to kidnap him." Joly is stammering slightly. "Nothing. I've done nothing to _you_ , by God."

Prouvaire stands with an ostentatiously loud scraping of chair legs on the floor. "Damn you, your very presence here reminds me of how lonely you've made me, and you accuse me of disliking you? Of course I dislike you, you fool, you and your idiot of a mistress. You've never done anything admirable in my presence, only tortured me -- and you say I'm jealous -- are you mad or merely stupid?"

"You leave her out of this!" Joly stays in his seat; he is trembling visibly now. "You think yourself so ill done by-- you with your lovers and your doting friends--"

"I might say the same for you, if I had seduced your mistress." Prouvaire bites his lip. "But I have not, and I have done nothing to injure you. And still you hate me!"

"I don't hate you," Joly says with cold deliberation. "I despise you and I'm sick of your put-upon airs."

It takes Prouvaire a moment to respond. When he does, he speaks more loudly than normal, and his voice is shrill. "You bastard. I've done nothing to you. Go to hell, Joly, and take him with you for all I care."

Shortly before Prouvaire's last sentence, the door opens quietly, and Combeferre comes in. He stops in the doorway, and his eyes widen at the outburst. He says sharply, "Jehan. Chrétien," in the tones of a teacher whose pupils need chiding, and then, somewhat more gently, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong." Joly can hardly speak. "What the hell is ever wrong, except that your precious _petit frère_ finds my existence inconvenient." He pushes to his feet.

"Chrétien," Combeferre says, half-chiding, half-impatient, "what are you talking about?"

Prouvaire chooses this moment to sniff loudly, which, if anyone was paying attention to him, would underline the fact that there are tears in his eyes. "You're the one who hates me, damn you, and I don't know why. I didn't do anything, anything at all."

"I'm going home," Joly says brittlely, "since I'm not welcome here. I'm sure Prouvaire will be glad to tell you what I've done and why. He seems to know better than I do." With that, he turns toward the door.

"Of course you're welcome," Combeferre says incredulously. "Wait a moment. Talk to me."

"What is there to say?" Joly's voice breaks mid-word, and he scowls at the wall.

"You're welcome here," Combeferre says in a deliberately even voice. " _Mon frère_ , don't go home angry. Talk to me."

"You don't know everything, Audric," Prouvaire says furiously, and storms out the door into the main part of the cafe.

Combeferre blinks after him, shakes his head, then gives Joly a somewhat more hopeful smile. "What's wrong?"

Joly covers his face with his hands for a moment. "I should go," hoarsely. "Let you talk to him."

"If he wanted to talk to me, he wouldn't have left." Combeferre walks over and touches Joly's shoulder lightly. "You can leave, if you want to, but I'd rather hear what's going on from both of you than only from Jehan."

"If you don't know--" Joly begins, and breaks off, swallowing. "I just-- he hates me, that's all. Always has. I-- I--" Suddenly furious, "I came here by chance, Bossuet made friends with me, because _Bossuet_ isn't a jealous brat, and the n-next thing I know Prouvaire is looking daggers at me. As if he doesn't know damn well I'm not going to steal his lover away. As if _he's_ ever had to listen to 'no, I can't stay, in fact I can't come to see you for the next week because it bothers Chrétien'! God!"

Combeferre blinks. "Ah." He bites his lip and considers the matter. "I am sorry, brother -- Jehan can be difficult when he sets his mind to it. Do you think I could help?"

"I don't know." Joly looks at the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this."

"Of course you didn't," in that soothing, trusting tone that Combeferre uses on occasion. "It'll be all right, Chrétien." A pause, then, "I could talk to him if you wanted me to."

Joly winces slightly. "If you think it'll do any good. I mean--" he clenches his hands as though to keep words from escaping him. "I've tried. He-- I always lose my temper." This last quietly, dejected.

Combeferre pats his shoulder again. "I can understand that. I'll talk to him, then -- and I expect I'll have an easier time keeping a cool head than you, but only because I'm not in the middle of this problem."

"All right," subdued; and then, after a moment's pause, he hugs Combeferre awkwardly, not quite looking at him.

Combeferre thumps him on the back fraternally. "Don't worry too much, _mon ami_."

Joly grins a bit. "I never worry too much. Just enough."

Combeferre smiles back at him. "Good." And, more seriously, "If you ever need to talk, brother, just ask me."

Joly meets his eyes finally, and nods. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."


	26. Impulse: May, 1829

For some time, Pontmercy has avoided the Cafe Musain, or at least has not visited it when anyone who knows him was present. He resurfaces again one evening with a dazed expression and three books. The first of these goes to Enjolras at the beginning of the evening with a murmured, "Thank you -- I hadn't any time to read it," the second, a bit later on, to Prouvaire with, "It was -- um, I think I didn't understand it, or at least I didn't understand your notes," and then when people begin to leave, Courfeyrac receives the third. There is a note sticking out of it. "Thank you," Pontmercy says earnestly, "and I am sorry, very sorry."

Courfeyrac takes it, blinking at him. "Sorry for what?"

Pontmercy blushes and turns away. "Never mind."

"Now I'm curious," Courfeyrac says mildly. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," and he walks out quickly.

Courfeyrac shakes his head, and flips through the pages absent-mindedly, pausing to examine the paper tucked between them. It proves longer than he thought, and he ends up reading the note through in growing bemusement. At the end of it he shakes his head again, stands up, and with vague farewells to the remaining stragglers, goes out.

Pontmercy is standing some distance down the street, attempting unsuccessfully to pretend that he was not watching the back door. When Courfeyrac comes out, he presses his hat down more firmly on his head and walks briskly toward the corner.

Courfeyrac catches up with him after a minute. "What's all this nonsense, my boy?"

Pontmercy's jaw sets. He walks faster and does not turn his head, as though Courfeyrac could have been addressing anyone else.

Courfeyrac, nothing daunted, catches him by the shoulder. "Marius. What's on your mind?"

Pontmercy stops abruptly. "I thought I made that quite clear."

Courfeyrac sidesteps to face him. "You made it quite clear you were most distressed over something, but I'm damned if I can make out what it is. Talk to me."

Pontmercy frowns at the ground rather than look at his face. "I have imposed on your good will far too many times. I won't, again. I'm sorry."

"Bless the boy! Have I ever complained?" Courfeyrac gives his shoulder a little shake. "If I minded you, I'd have said so."

Pontmercy backs away a step. "I didn't say you'd complained. I said I'll leave you in peace."

"My dear man, nobody asked you to." A frown. "Did they?"

"No," although there is a hesitation in the answer.

Courfeyrac studies him a moment, then puts an arm around his shoulders. "What happened?"

Pontmercy freezes. "I'm sorry. I should go home."

"Whatever for?" lightly. "Come and talk to me."

"I shouldn't take up your time." His voice wavers.

Courfeyrac pats his shoulder. "I've all the time in the world, _mon ami_. Let's go somewhere better lit, shall we?"

Pontmercy sighs and gives up. "All right."

Courfeyrac nods, and steers him along for a couple of blocks, around a corner, and into a small rather ramshackle building, where there are enough people to provide background noise and enough light to see your hand in front of your face, if little more than that. He nudges Pontmercy toward a chair, and sits down across from him. "So."

Pontmercy sits and looks at his lap, a stray curl falling into his face. "I should have left you alone last year, after I, um, first realized I was intruding."

"Intruding on _what_ , pray tell?"

"On your privacy," with a note of exasperation. Pontmercy looks up at him with an expression that says he cannot be as much of an idiot as he seems.

Courfeyrac looks back at him blandly. "I hadn't noticed."

Pontmercy shakes his head. "No? Your friends -- do that sort of thing often, do they?"

"What sort of thing?"

Pontmercy blushes. "Good God, if you've forgotten already."

"I seem to have," mildly.

"I --" Pontmercy puts his head in his hands.

Courfeyrac reaches out to touch his arm lightly. "It's all right."

"I should never even have spoken to Daniel," Pontmercy says, pulling away from him with a disgusted look on his face.

Courfeyrac blinks twice. "...oh."

The response to this sterling piece of wit is the sound of Pontmercy's head colliding with the tabletop at not inconsiderable speed.

"Lord," Courfeyrac sighs. "D'you think I hold that against you?"

Pontmercy mumbles something.

"Hmm?"

"I don't know," very clearly enunciated.

"Daniel's rather irresistible," Courfeyrac says mildly.

Pontmercy gets up so fast that it's a wonder he doesn't strain anything. "I didn't mean to do anything," he says, attempting to prove his sincerity through volume and vehemence.

Courfeyrac starts a little, but stays where he is, reaching out a hand. "Of course. Of course you didn't, sit down, would you? I'm not accusing you of anything."

"I'll leave you alone, I will, I promise." Pontmercy starts for the door and brushes by a startled waiter.

"God in heaven," Courfeyrac says, exasperated, and follows.

"Why are you following me?" Pontmercy asks when Courfeyrac has caught up again. "I only want to leave you alone so that you can be happy without my causing problems."

"But I don't want to be left alone, you see." Courfeyrac flashes his most charming smile. "So we're rather at cross purposes. What problems, exactly, do you think you're causing?"

Pontmercy gives him a confused look and stops. "I don't think I'm causing problems, now, but if I started spending time around all of you again, I'd only be in the way, asking stupid questions and, and doing stupid things."

"You don't ask such very stupid questions," grinning at him. "And you aren't in the way."

"I was before."

"Not that I ever noticed."

Pontmercy blushes again. "Your friends don't like me. And I -- I did stupid things."

Courfeyrac puts an arm around him again. "Now that's nonsense. How do you know they don't like you?"

Pontmercy avoids looking at him. "I'm not a fool. They always hush when I walk in, and move around a bit as though they'd been playing some sort of game before I arrived."

"Ah," vaguely.

"Ah, yourself," irritably. "And you say they like me? Perhaps, but they don't trust me."

"It's only politics," Courfeyrac says, conciliatory. "They know you won't be interested."

"How would they know if they won't say it in front of me?" Pontmercy sighs.

"It's nothing personal." Courfeyrac hugs him lightly, one-armed.

Pontmercy leans on his shoulder for a moment before realizing he's done it. "I should go," reluctantly, pulling away.

Courfeyrac kisses his cheek, in what might be construed as a fraternal manner. "If you must."

Pontmercy looks at him for a long moment. "You can't want me around," softly.

An arched brow. "Why not?"

"After everything?"

"Everything was not as much as you suppose. And I rather like your company, when you're not being tragic." Courfeyrac half grins.

Pontmercy bites his lip. "Then everything's all right?"

"As far as I'm concerned, certainly."

"And -- and your friend?"

A pause, then a shrug. "Daniel's far too busy with his girl to worry over last year's ... peccadilloes."

Pontmercy gives him a wide-eyed look. "Oh."

Courfeyrac smiles at him, running a hand down his arm. "Don't worry."

Pontmercy hugs him. "I'm sorry."

Courfeyrac returns the embrace readily, patting his back. "Everything's all right."

"I didn't know."

"Hmm?"

"I didn't realize you were alone," softly.

"It's all right. Why should you?"

Pontmercy sighs and lets him go. "Are you all right?"

Courfeyrac shrugs, keeping a hand on his shoulder. "Well enough."

"Should I go?"

Courfeyrac gives him a long look. "If you want to."

Pontmercy looks at the street and doesn't answer.

"If, on the other hand," softly, "you cared to come home with me--"

"Oh, God." Pontmercy backs away. "You must be joking."

Courfeyrac watches him rather sadly. "For the company, is all. It's all right, you needn't."

"Oh," again. "All right."

"If you'd rather not, I quite understand." A quick, bright smile. "We'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"You're the only one who's willing to pretend you're happy to see me," Pontmercy says, looking away.

"You exaggerate," gently.

Pontmercy shakes his head.

After a moment, Courfeyrac puts out a hand to touch his cheek. "Look, I--"

"What?" Pontmercy asks. There is something like fear in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," quietly. "I didn't mean to-- discomfit you."

"Nor I you."

"You haven't. Unless it's by being damnably pretty.-- Oh --hell." He turns away. "Sorry. Sorry, _mon ami_."

Pontmercy blushes. "Aimery."

"Sorry." Courfeyrac rakes a hand through his hair. "I'm really not very reassuring, am I? Go on. It's all right, I'll be sensible tomorrow."

"I won't see you tomorrow or the day after," Pontmercy says, his voice shaking a bit. "I won't see you at all, I said that."

"All right," sounding defeated. "I'm sorry."

Pontmercy follows him a few steps and kisses his cheek.

Courfeyrac turns and embraces him tightly.

"I'm sorry I'm such a fool."

"You're not. No more than anyone else."

Pontmercy sighs and holds him tightly.

After a bit the tension leaves Courfeyrac's shoulders, and he recovers enough self-possession to thump Pontmercy on the back. "All right?"

Pontmercy kisses his cheek again. "I suppose."

"You suppose?"

Pontmercy sighs a shuddering sigh and tries the kiss again, in case he gets the point this time.

"Marius," softly in his ear, "you make it very difficult for me to behave myself."

Pontmercy shivers but doesn't let him go.

Courfeyrac winds a hand in his hair. "And here I had all the best intentions."

"I'll disappear tomorrow," Pontmercy promises.

"Don't do that," kissing his cheek in turn. "I'd wonder where you'd gone."

"Nowhere in particular."

"And I'd feel badly."

Pontmercy shrugs. "It'd be better for you."

"I don't see how."

"I wouldn't be in your way."

Courfeyrac lets him go enough to look him in the eye. "Come home with me tonight," low and breathlessly.

Pontmercy blushes. "I --"

"Please?" kissing him lightly.

Pontmercy returns the kiss with enthusiasm.

After a brief moment Courfeyrac pulls away, flushed. "Not here."

"All right," breathlessly.

Courfeyrac turns away to start down the street, tugging him along.

Pontmercy follows, stumbling a little.

It is not a terribly long walk, but Courfeyrac is somewhat out of breath by the time they arrive. He lets them in briskly, shuts and locks the door, and kisses Marius precipitately.

Marius makes a small noise and embraces him.

" _God_ you're pretty," running desirous fingers through his hair. "God save me, you ought to tell me to keep my hands to myself, I don't know if I've the willpower."

Marius knots a hand in his jacket. "You don't have to say that," he says, though his voice is somewhat choked.

"Oh, but I do," kissing him again.

"No, you don't."

"Truth. Oh, my God, _mon ami_ , this is mad, this is mad. Kiss me."

"What's so mad about it?" Marius asks breathlessly.

"Everything." Courfeyrac grins at him. "Bed."

Marius kisses him several times in a flurry.

Aimery laughs, clinging to him. "Bed, _mon ami_ , you'll knock me over."

Marius blushes. "All right." He lets go a little. It is not clear whether he could keep his feet under him if he tried to stand alone.

Aimery tugs him in the right direction, and collapses onto the side of the bed. " _God_ \--"

Marius half-sits, half-falls beside him. "D'you want me to go?"

"No," kissing him again, "no, no, no. Stay."

"Oh," before kissing him back. "All right."

Aimery tangles a hand in his hair, pulling him closer.

Marius embraces him again.

Aimery kisses him roughly, biting his lip. "Stay with me," less coaxing than imperative.

"God, Aimery," Marius says, only just the other side of incoherence.

Aimery pushes him back against the pillow and kisses him again.

This seems to destroy any struggling remnants of Marius' sense of self-preservation, for he makes an encouraging noise and tangles his fingers in Aimery's hair.

Presently, with a gasping breath, Aimery breaks the kiss and begins fumbling with the fastenings to Marius' trousers.

Marius blinks at him in the darkness and kisses him again after a deep breath.

"Mmm," breathlessly.

"I'm sorry," before embracing him and demanding another kiss, apparently to make it clear that he does not regret that, at least.

Aimery obliges him with enthusiasm.

"Ah, God," clinging to him.

"Let me--" shakily, caressing him.

Marius swears again and turns his face away.

Aimery catches a desperate breath. "Kiss me."

"Oh," Marius says, then sits up a little to pull him closer and kiss him.

Aimery embraces him with a soft groan, kissing him back fiercely.

Marius runs a hand down his back, shivering.

After a minute of this Aimery regains enough awareness to slide a hand between them, scarcely breaking the kiss.

Marius untucks his shirt, fumbling with the fabric.

Aimery shivers, and knots his free hand in Marius' hair.

"I'm sorry," Marius says again.

"No," hoarsely. "No. God, don't talk, kiss me."

"But --" Marius sighs and complies.

"Sweet friend, sweet, sweet boy," between kisses. "Don't talk, don't think, just please, oh, let me--"

"Aimery," hoarsely, stroking his hair again.

"I'm here," kissing his ear and the side of his neck.

Marius tugs on Aimery's waistband, sighing.

"God, you're lovely." After a moment Aimery takes the hint, disengaging one hand long enough to unbutton his pants.

"I'm not," in protest.

"Want you," hazily, before kissing him again.

Marius whimpers and embraces him.

"God." Gentle, insistent fingers stroke his skin. "You are."

"I --" Marius blinks at him without seeing anything.

"Beautiful," in a low, strained, blurred voice. "Let me. Let me do this."

"Oh, God." Marius covers his mouth with one hand.

Aimery leaves off what he's doing for a moment, then resumes with dampened fingers. "Ah, _mon ami_ \--"

Marius makes a low, strangled noise and grips his shoulder tightly for a long moment, then lets go and covers his face entirely. "Oh, God," faintly. "I --"

Aimery embraces him tightly. "Shh."

"That was, oh, Aimery --"

"Mm?" indistinctly.

"That was lovely."

Aimery takes a deep breath. "Good."

Marius blinks at him. "I -- um." He blushes. "I'm sorry."

"Why...?"

"I can't quite do that." He yawns. "Oh. I still have my shoes on."

"So you do." Aimery buries his face in Marius' shoulder for a moment. "Sorry."

"It's all right," dazedly, stroking his hair. "I'm exhausted."

Aimery detaches himself, a little shakily, and moves down the bed to divest him of them.

"Oh," and a yawn. "Thank you. I should, um, do that."

Aimery shakes his head slightly, and pats him on the leg. "Go to sleep. It's all right."

"Are you sure?"

"'course."

Marius stretches a little and yawns again. "Thank you." He seems to drift off in the middle of the word.

* * * * *

At some dark hour of the morning, Pontmercy wakes up and finds that there is an arm around his waist. He buries his face in the pillow to think about this for a minute, then gently attempts to disentangle himself.

Courfeyrac sighs, clutching half-consciously at the other's shirtsleeve.

Pontmercy frowns and pulls away, stepping onto the cold floor with one foot.

Another sigh, and, waking up a little more, "'s matter?"

Pontmercy swears. "Go to sleep," he suggests softly.

"Don't go." Not in comprehension, for which he's not nearly awake enough, but like an anxious child. "Don't..."

"I'm sorry. I have to."

Courfeyrac catches his hand again in something like panic, tugging at him mutely.

Pontmercy stares at him. "Let me go."

A sharp intaken breath, halfway to a sob; then he lets go, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?" faintly.

"I don't know." Pontmercy backs away until he is well out of reach and fastens his trousers.

Courfeyrac glances at the window, then back again quickly. "Can't go anywhere at this hour."

Pontmercy picks up his hat. "I can, and I will."

"At least stay till morning. Please." It was meant to be a calm and courteous request, but somehow, it doesn't quite come out that way.

"I shouldn't be here now." Pontmercy puts on his hat. "I'm sorry, I've imposed on you yet again." He starts for the door. "It won't happen again."

"No." Courfeyrac sits up properly, pale. "No, you haven't, and it's not your fault, and I'm sorry, I won't do anything, I won't ask anything of you, but don't leave yet, please."

Pontmercy blinks. "I should have left earlier." He puts a hand on the doorknob.

Courfeyrac puts his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," again, and then, more hesitant, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," unsteadily, "nothing really. I-- Try not to get killed on your way home, won't you."

"What -- Aimery, you can't ask me to stay and then hide, what is it?" Pontmercy walks back toward the bed.

"Oh God." He knots his hands together, not looking up. "It's nothing. I just-- would-- appreciate the company. That's all."

Pontmercy sits on the edge of the bed.

Courfeyrac looks up at him with a passable semblance of composure, and then ruins it by embracing him tightly. "Sorry."

"It's all right." Pontmercy pats his shoulder awkwardly.

"Is it?" Courfeyrac seems a little steadier for the contact. "You don't want to be here at all, do you."

Pontmercy buries his face in Courfeyrac's shoulder and doesn't answer.

Courfeyrac strokes his hair. "It's all right. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," softly.

" _Mon ami_ ," Courfeyrac says gently, after a minute. "Go if you want to go. But don't disappear, will you? I'd hate not to see you again."

Pontmercy sighs and relaxes into his arms. "I should, though."

"Whatever for?"

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

"I'm glad you did."

"I don't see why." Pontmercy sighs again.

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. "Because it was lovely."

"It -- not really."

"You didn't think so?" a little sadly.

Pontmercy blushes. "I don't know."

Courfeyrac smiles at him wryly. "My dear man, it's all right to say no. I'm sure I can weather the blow."

"It was confusing. I don't know." Pontmercy yawns.

Courfeyrac kisses his cheek. "Come back to bed, _mon ami_. It's late."

"I'm sorry."

"You've done nothing to be sorry for," gravely.

Pontmercy leans on his shoulder. "Are you sure?"

Courfeyrac strokes his hair. "Quite sure. On the contrary, you've done me a great favor."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I told you -- I appreciate your company." A hesitation. "It's -- very quiet here, lately."

Pontmercy gives him a sympathetic look and a kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry."

Courfeyrac smiles a bit and returns the kiss. "It's all right. And--"

"Hmm?"

"I don't know," running a hand down his back. "You make me feel very wicked, sometimes."

Pontmercy frowns. "How do you mean?"

"You're so... I don't know. So charming and so serious. Half the time I want to shock you, and the other half I feel I should be on my best behavior." A small smile. "Which, granted, is not very good."

"Oh." Pontmercy blushes. "I -- I see. A little."

Courfeyrac touches his cheek. "Naïf isn't the word I want. Not really. You're very decorous, but God, I think you'd be good at being indecorous, given the chance."

Pontmercy blushes. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Certainly. But I promised to behave, didn't I?" He drops his hand to Pontmercy's shoulder. "And you're in love with Daniel."

Pontmercy stands up, his cheeks furiously red. "I am not."

"No? My mistake." Courfeyrac looks up at him with shadowed eyes. "I expect I'm prejudiced. There, sit down, I'm sorry."

Pontmercy crosses his arms. "Why did you do all that if that's what you thought?"

"Oh, God." Courfeyrac sighs. "Because I like you, and because you're quite terribly handsome and I didn't want to be alone tonight. I thought you mightn't, either. Was I wrong, then?"

"No -- I --" Pontmercy sits again. "I didn't know it was normal to seduce someone in love with one's lover," in rather a prim tone.

Courfeyrac shrugs. "I expect it isn't."

"I'm sorry."

"If you don't stop that," still in the same mild, detached tone, "I'm going to have to kiss you again."

"Oh." Pontmercy looks at the bedspread.

"Damn," Courfeyrac says lightly. "You really didn't like it, did you?"

Pontmercy frowns and doesn't answer.

Courfeyrac reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Are you angry with me?"

"No. No. I'm tired and I've not been fair to you."

Courfeyrac blinks. "How so?"

He blushes. "You've been, ah, more than kind. I should return the favor."

Another blink, and then a smile. "Not while you're tired. I don't think either of us would enjoy that."

Pontmercy shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

Courfeyrac kisses him.

"Oh," says Pontmercy, for he had forgotten the earlier promise. He embraces Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac hugs him. "Told you."

"You did," and after a moment's hesitation, he returns the kiss.

Courfeyrac pulls him close, with a small, pleased sound.

Pontmercy strokes his hair tentatively.

"Ah," Courfeyrac says eventually. "That's lovely."

"Mm," Pontmercy says in agreement, and yawns.

Courfeyrac kisses him again lightly. "Go to sleep, _mon ami_."

"Sorry," again.

"It's all right, I tell you. Everything's all right, but you're falling asleep on me, Pontmercy." Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. "Go to sleep, and if you're still apologetic in the morning, it will be time enough to talk about it."

"All right." Pontmercy takes his jacket off, hangs it on the end of the bed, and lies down.

"Pants," Courfeyrac says like a watchful nanny.

Pontmercy frowns and sits up. "All right, all right." While he's undressing, he takes off his waistcoat as well.

Courfeyrac grins. "I don't know how you slept as long as you did like that."

Pontmercy blushes. "Don't know."

Gently, firmly, Courfeyrac takes the discarded clothes off his hands and tosses them onto a chair. "There."

"Thank you." With a yawn, Pontmercy lies back.

Courfeyrac stretches out beside him, kisses his forehead, and settles back against the pillow.

Pontmercy touches his arm sleepily. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"All right." He falls silent.

Courfeyrac puts an arm around him, and subsides.

Pontmercy makes a small noise and puts an arm around his waist.

"Goodnight, _mon ami_ ," softly.

"Goodnight."


	27. Estrangement: June, 1829

After a meeting one Thursday night when the weather is warm and mild, Prouvaire gives Bossuet a slanting look of the sort that can generally be interpreteted as a "come hither" glance. Bossuet accompanies him to a nearby garden, namely the Jardin du Luxembourg, where they walk in the springtime dusk, close enough that every few steps they bump elbows or shoulders, as if by mistake.

"I have missed you these past few weeks," Prouvaire says, reproachfully but softly.

Bossuet brushes his shoulder lightly. "My dear man, I've seen you every other evening, at least."

"At the meetings you sometimes felt obligated to attend, yes. What of that?" Prouvaire frowns. "You have seen me as often as you saw the rest of our friends, save Chrétien." He bites his lip and turns away. "I remember a time when we were not so distant from each other, but it seems that you, at least, are more pleased with this state of affairs."

Bossuet stops, frowning. " _Chéri_ \--"

Prouvaire shrugs. "If you have had more than enough of me, I will leave you be. You have only to tell me so."

"Of course not." Bossuet rests his hands on Prouvaire's delicate shoulders, frowning in concern. "That isn't so at all-- don't you know that by now?"

"Clearly you are tired of me," Prouvaire says, looking at the ground. "Clearly you want me to cease interfering with your schedule, your time with them."

"What-- no. Of course not, of course I don't want any such thing, good God, Jehan!"

"You do not want me to -- to -- I do not know what you want, love, but clearly you do not want _me_."

Bossuet pulls him close. "You don't think so?"

"Oh, and you will seduce me to prove it?" Jehan pulls away. "I am sorry, but that does not suffice. If that is all you want me for -- perhaps you would be better off with only Chrétien and whatever her name is."

"Jehan!"

"Théo! You love them far better and more deeply than you love me, and you hope to mend it with kisses -- but you cannot use me so."

"Nonsense." Bossuet catches his hands. "Don't be absurd, _chéri_."

Jehan pulls away. "I am not being absurd. Whyever should you care for me, after all, when I am such a _stupid_ boy, given to, to overreactions?" He shakes his head. "No wonder you despise me so."

Bossuet sputters. "Jehan! I do not. What brought this on?"

Jehan shrugs and looks at the floor. "If you loved me, you would not assume that you could abandon me and woo me back whenever you pleased."

"I _don't_." Bossuet looks unutterably hurt. " _Chéri_ \--"

"Ah. So what would you call it, then? Your Musichetta, your Chrétien -- I am but a relic. Antiquated and infantile at once. You have no need of me, and we have both known it long enough that one of us should have said it before." Jehan turns. "I am going home. And you are no longer welcome there."

"Jehan-- don't do this. Please."

"Why not?" He turns back. "You need not explain that you love me, for I know that time is long past. You need not tell me that you want me --" he throws up his hands "-- by God, that is hardly an original affliction, and I am not waiting on your pleasure anymore."

Bossuet catches his sleeve, terribly earnest and awkward and anxious. "I do love you. I don't know why that's so hard to believe-- Jehan, don't go."

"You expect me to wait on your whims. Is that love? It is not courtesy." Jehan looks at him, furious and pink-cheeked. "Perhaps I shall take to dropping in on you when I would like to see you, but I do not expect your Chrétien would appreciate my company."

"I don-- you-- I--" Bossuet puts a hand to his forehead. "You could have said something before now, cher-- you could have come to see me, asked me to come and see you, you know perfectly well I'd never refuse you!"

"If you do not want to see me -- which you do not, for when was the last time you sought my company -- I am hardly going to insist that you leave off something you enjoy." Prouvaire sighs and loses much of his momentum. "You did this to me before, and I was heartbroken. Now you have begun again, and I find it does not matter so much --" he looks up and meets Bossuet's eyes "-- because I cannot trust you as I did before."

Bossuet looks stricken, but sticks to his point. "Of course I want to see you -- and if you wanted to see me so badly, why wait for a month before telling me so? You're not being sensible, beloved."

Prouvaire frowns. "Do you forget so quickly that I love you? Do you have so little desire to talk to me that I must hound you for a conversation, so little desire for anything else that I must drag you from your beloved and come rapping at your door to see you for a moment? I have not had your luck, Théo -- you are in love and you are happy. I am in love with you, and you make me weep and rage with your happiness, happiness that excludes me as surely as if you bothered to mention it. I will not hunt you down to tell you that I would like to speak to you, perhaps I would like to hold you, whatever it is. I will wait, and I will find other places to go and other people who might not abandon me with such offhand neglect." He backs away. "I care about you enough that I will stay out of your way."

" _Jehan_. Please."

"No." Prouvaire turns away. "You know where to find me, if you need me. Goodnight, Théo." He walks down the path as quickly as he can go without running.

* * * * *

The next night, Bossuet is not to be seen at the Café, although he spent a good deal of the morning there, in a less than sober state, according to the staff. The night after that, neither he nor Joly shows up, but on the morning of the third day there is a sharp knock at Prouvaire's door.

"Who is it?" Prouvaire asks in a hoarse voice.

"Chrétien," tightly. "Open up, will you?"

A moment. "I -- at this hour?"

" _Yes_ , at this hour."

Prouvaire opens the door. The room is a mess. His clothes are even more disorderly and rumpled than usual, as though he has slept in them for at least a night, though he has dark circles under his eyes that make it seem as though he has not slept at all. "I do not want to speak to you. If you must know."

"I'm sure you don't." Joly's voice is harsh with the effort of keeping the stammer out of it. "I don't much care what you want, brother. If you must know. Would you rather talk here in the doorway, or are you going to let me in?"

Prouvaire backs up to let him in and shuts the door behind him with a little too much force. "What brings you here, brother?" as if the last word is a mortal insult.

Joly flinches at the noise, but faces him like a man about to be shot. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I told him he is not obligated to me for anything anymore." Prouvaire looks away from him. "I would have thought that you would appreciate that."

"Appreciate?" Joly's voice cracks slightly. "I'd _appreciate_ not seeing him torn to pieces because, God forbid, you're put out with him. Damn you. What did you --" He stumbles to a halt, almost choking with vehemence.

"I am sure you can comfort him between the two of you." Prouvaire shrugs, looking even more like a sullen adolescent than usual. "He will be fine. If he was so dependent on my good opinion -- he would have not been so thoughtless, and I would still think well of him."

"Oh-- thoughtless--! Because he has sense enough not to want to nursemaid you every spare moment?" Joly stops, visibly struggling for calm. "No-- What do you mean, 'the two of you'?"

"You and her," waving a hand. "I do not want him to _nursemaid_ me, damn you. I am simply tired of being ignored, and rather than impose my presence where it is so clearly not wanted -- you can have him." Prouvaire glares at Joly. "You win. Go home. Tell him how wonderful he is; he is tired of hearing it -- or anything -- from me."

Joly clenches a fist convulsively. "Don't be such a _child_. God! Are you jealous of 'chetta, then, is that it? You have less sense than I thought. He came to stay with us because _you_ were busy with somebody else, little brother."

"By God, I am not your brother, and -- I am doing my best to stay out of his way. He wants to be with you, from all I can tell. He has not said anything to me about wanting to be anywhere near me, let alone sharing a flat." Prouvaire bites his lip. "I do not want to bother the three of you any more. You can do what you like, and I will do as I please, inasmuch as I can -- and I will miss him, damn it, I have been missing him, but he knows that, he must know that, and if he does not care --" He shrugs again.

"Oh, yes, you are. Whether we like it or not." Joly laughs shortly. "If you cared that much, you'd swallow your precious pride and talk to him. If you could see--" he swallows. "But you're quite comfortable, I suppose, you and your righteous indignation. I--" And breaks off again, his face twisting. "Damn you--"

"You won," Prouvaire says again, coldly. "Leave me alone. I have no pride, not in this, that he has not already tranpled into dust." His shoulders hunch. "He has not acted in any way as though he wants me around in the last five months. He has changed; you have changed him. In a week, he will be happy that I am out of the way."

Joly gives another coughing laugh. "'Won'? Is that what it is to you? I decline the victory. I'm not your enemy, you _stupid_ , theatrical boy. I want what you claim to want; I want him not to be miserable." And this is punctuated, anticlimactically, with a sneeze.

"He does not need me to stop him from being miserable. If he did, he would have come here instead of sending you, or whatever it was that he did, or whatever you did by taking the initiative to torment me in my own home." Prouvaire sighs and loses some of the tension in his frame. He gives Joly a wry, sad look. "I do not know why you think he will be miserable without me. He has not been miserable -- to the extent that he has been without me -- these past months, anymore than I have been actively miserable because he was busy." He bites his lip. "I know I've been -- busy -- but I couldn't bear to think about everything, and the only way I could stop myself was to -- do something else."

"Tell him, not me!" Joly throws up his hands, and turns away. "He's in love with you. God knows I don't understand it-- but--" The stammer threatens to resurface. "Damn it, he's my best friend. You don't-- you-- go and see him. You owe him that much. Unless this, this, fit of pique is more important to you."

"Like hell he is. He was, but that was -- that's changed." Prouvaire puts a hand on Joly's shoulder. "You don't know what it's done to me, all of this -- you don't know what you've done to me, all of you. Damn you, Chrétien, and your pretty mistress, too. You could at least have spoken to me sometimes, any of you -- because if you think this is pique, you don't know what we had, then. You don't know how much he meant to me, how much I childishly thought I meant to him." He squeezes Joly's shoulder. "He does not care about me, whatever he may say to you, and he never did."

Joly seizes his wrist, looking rather as though he's frightened by his own fierceness. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Prouvaire shivers. "I don't know you. Not at all. All I know is that for a long time now, I've hated you when I was supposed to be your friend and resented you as strongly as if you were my blood brother. And -- you think I am a stupid child. I --" He falters, then takes hold of Joly's lapel with his free hand and kisses him forcefully. Prouvaire has tears on his cheeks even as he does this.

Joly goes rigid as though he's been stabbed, and puts a hand roughly on Prouvaire's shoulder. Beyond that, he fails to respond, but when the kiss ends, there are tears in his eyes as well. His face is stormy. "I'd rather think you're a stupid child than that you're a self-centered fool. I never agreed to suffer that from self-centered fools." Behind the sharpness of his tone, there is a hint of pleading. "I may not know what's between you, but I know the state you leave him in when you throw fits like this." He takes a deep breath. "For the last time, Jean, I have no interest in taking your place even if I could. Get that through your head right now."

"You may not want to, but you have." Prouvaire lets him go. "I don't know him anymore, Chrétien," half-pleading, "and you know him, and he loves you. I don't know what to say to him, but -- I will speak to him." He winces at his own words. "I don't mean to be -- to be self-centered. I thought I was doing what was best for all of us." He bites his lip. "It isn't as though I threw him out, or -- or anything. I don't know. And I don't know why he loves me, if he does, anymore. We've been so far apart --"

"Neither do I." Joly winces, scrubs a hand across his face. "I mean-- I don't understand. But-- yes. Go. Talk." He fumbles for the latch of the door. "If you go and break his heart, I'll--"

"No! I'm not going anywhere." Prouvaire looks fierce for a fleeting moment before he dissolves into tears again. "I couldn't talk to him about this in front of you, in front of _her_ \-- in a place where I'm not welcome and where I'm never going to be welcome." He sniffs. "Please. Tell him I'm here, and he can -- he can come if he wants to, but if he doesn't, I -- I don't know. I don't know anything," despairingly.

Joly glares at the floorboards for a minute. "I'll tell him," he says roughly at last, and jerks the door open. "Good morning, then."

"Chrétien -- don't hate me. I was trying to do what was best for you," using the plural. "I wasn't playing games, not at all. I -- damn you," switching abruptly to the singular. "I want you to understand why I've done this. But you don't," not a question, "and you -- what you must think of me." Prouvaire covers his eyes with one hand.

"Does it matter what I think of you?" Joly fidgets with the latch. "I don't hate you. I have never hated you. Wake _up_ , Jehan."

"Then you think I'm an idiot," Prouvaire says, and wipes his eyes. "You don't know me. And -- I don't know you, and why should I, except that we're brothers and -- and all of this."

Joly is quiet a minute. "Those aren't good reasons?" he says at last, a bit more gently.

"Of course they're good reasons. Just -- I think they've kept us from caring to know each other, rather than anything useful." Prouvaire gives him a wistful, watery smile. "Not that it seems like it's going to change, but wouldn't it be nice if it did?"

"It might be easier," Joly says testily, "if you didn't begrudge me a conversation with your beloved."

Prouvaire loses his tentative smile. "I don't begrudge you a conversation, or twenty. It didn't bother me -- much -- until he took to spending all his time with you. Until he moved in with you, until he stopped talking to me. You do think I'm a petty brat, don't you? Look past your irritation for half a moment. I have some right to be upset in this situation, whether you'll acknowledge it or not."

"I know nothing about it," stiffly. "As you keep telling me. I've said what I came to say." Joly turns away again.

"And you don't care? No, no, of course you don´t. Why would you? I am, after all, only a stupid boy," scornfully.

"Damn you, _I'm trying to do what's best for you_." The bitter mimicry seems to take the last of Joly's composure. "And as usual I've made a mess of it. I should-- should have stayed home and let you torment each other-- I--" He clenches his hands. "I'll leave you in peace. Good morning." With that, he goes out, shutting the door abruptly.

Prouvaire sighs and locks the door behind him before pouring out water to wash his face.


	28. Pursuit: June, 1829

Around ten-o'clock on a warm June evening, Combeferre says something quietly to Enjolras and gives him a brief, warm smile before departing with Courfeyrac. Due to a variety of circumstances -- illness, imagined illness, lethargy, and obligations to family -- the meeting ends when they go, for the quorum has dissolved. Grantaire had been observing the meeting with his normal aloof aplomb, but when Combeferre leaves he stands, stretches in a loose-limbed drunken way, and says, "Let me walk you home, _mon ami_." He must be addressing Enjolras, because there is no one else left in the back room, but he does not quite look at the target of his invitation. 

Enjolras looks up at him warily. "No, thank you." 

"Ah, come now. You don't have to walk alone, if you let me." Grantaire clucks his tongue. "And you can lecture me, as we go, if you like." 

"I don't want to lecture you." Enjolras stands, sighing slightly, and pushes in his chair. 

"Then keep me company." Grantaire opens the door and holds it with a surfeit of ceremony. "I shan't abandon you." 

Enjolras puts a hand on the door as though to negate any attempt at courtesy. "I don't need company. Good night." 

"Then would m'sieur walk me home?" Grantaire stumbles against the door. "He may be all right, alone in the world, but I do poorly at finding my own door at noon -- if I were ever awake and about at noon, and I don't see why anyone would be, with Helios glaring quite like you are and an increased risk of actually going to classes, God forbid. In any case, metaphorically I could walk right past my own door, left to my own devices. Reach a hand out to me, Julien, to the downtrodden masses -- personified in me, for Bossuet stepped on my toe earlier and I've got a bit of a limp coming on -- and help me home." 

Enjolras eyes him. "I have to get home, soon." 

"Whatever for?" Grantaire smiles at him. To say that it is a lazy smile would understate the case. "You've no one waiting, _n'est-ce pas_ , and no classes tomorrow. Nothing to do but take a nice walk in the evening, do a good deed by making sure I don't walk to Calais and end up in Scotland." 

"All _right_ ," exasperated. "All right." 

Grantaire straightens up and walks into the street. It's anyone's guess how he managed to get rolling drunk by ten-o'clock, but he has apparently done it. "And once you've reminded me where I live, perhaps I can help you figure out the fastest way for you to get home. If you want, of course -- but it's all trivial, isn't it, all crossroads and alleyways and shadows. One bed's as good as another if you're asleep." 

"Mm." Enjolras walks as briskly as possible, given that he's following. 

Grantaire turns abruptly into an alley that may or may not be a shortcut, and stops talking quite so loudly. "After all, if you've fallen asleep, even the company's immaterial. Just Morpheus drawing you pictures and all." 

Enjolras tucks his hands in his pockets. "I suppose so," distantly. 

Grantaire stops walking and half-turns to look at Enjolras. "By God, _mon ami_ , you're pretty." 

Enjolras stiffens. "Really," he says frostily. "Thank you for pointing that out." 

Grantaire reaches up and takes hold of his shoulder. "It's a pity Audric abandoned you like that, _mon ami_. Truly -- I don't know what he was thinking." 

Enjolras steps back, out from under his hand. "Audric does me the courtesy of considering that I can look after myself. Are you going, or must I find your way for you?" 

"God knows what kind of trouble you could get into, all alone," Grantaire continues, speaking softly and entirely ignoring anything Enjolras has said. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between them again. "You're entirely too charming to wander home by yourself. Poor Julien -- poor, generous Julien." Grantaire reaches up and touches his cheek. "Are all your friends tired of you, now?" 

Enjolras goes white, and pushes his hand away. "Well?" 

"You're always welcome," Grantaire says, and reaches toward him again. "I'd never, never turn you away, God, _mon ami_ , I don't see how they could be so cruel to you. Come home with me." He catches hold of Enjolras' sleeve. 

"What are you-- stop that." Enjolras jerks away. "For God's sake." 

"Oh?" Grantaire frowns. "And why would you refuse me -- now, when I'm being magnanimous--" he stumbles only a little over the syllables "--and when I mean well? When they've all gone off with their light-of-loves, leaving you behind? You don't have to be lonely, Julien, not for a moment. Come with me; let me be kind to you." 

"Don't be ridiculous," with a slight tremor. "Go home, sleep it off, I don't have time for this--" 

"Of course you do." Grantaire takes another step toward him, so that they are nearly touching. "Nothing else to do, no one else to see. You can come home with me, and no one will be the wiser. Let me kiss you, _mon chéri_." 

Enjolras backs away again, but now he's against the wall. "Stop it." His voice is brittle with disgust. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but stop this. Take yourself elsewhere." 

Grantaire puts a hand on his shoulder. "God, you're young. Do you have to go with all of them? Is that your law, your _liberté_ incarnate, that when they ask -- your beautiful friends, but none as breathtaking as you -- that you must go with them? It's maddening to watch, you know, the way you all flirt when you forget I'm there. The way you'll leave with one or the other -- not so bad, if it's just Audric, but -- how can you go with Aimery who will turn you out in a moment? How can you ignore me? I would never do that to you." 

Enjolras knocks his hand away again, trembling a little. " _Stop it_. Get out of my way." 

"You don't treasure loyalty?" Grantaire doesn't back up. "I would treat you so well, Julien. You deserve wonderful things, devotion -- and I could be devoted to you, though you'll laugh to hear it. I could sing the praises of your Republic for days if only you wanted me to, if only you'd smile at me -- if only you'd hold me a moment, instead of turning to your will-o'-the-wisp friends for a moment's pleasure. I could give you more than that." 

Enjolras colors. " _Get out of my way_." He tries to sidestep, scowling. 

"Damn you." Grantaire frowns at him, and moves to block him from leaving. His homeliness is abruptly hideous; his bulk -- for though he is short, he is wide, and not all of it is fat -- is menacing. "You can play with all the rest of them, is that it, but you won't spare a moment for me? You'll waste your time with boys who don't give a damn about you, who want your politics or your body but never your heart -- damn you, Julien. Don't turn away from me. Aren't you listening to me? I could give you what you need. I could love you, not like your feckless boy who leaves you in the cold for some lascivious friend, but endlessly, without glancing away from you for a moment." 

Enjolras chokes on a breath. "Just-- stop it. Shut up, go away, let me alone, God! just let me alone!" In a stray gleam of lamplight from the street, his face is childlike and frightened. 

"You don't need to be alone." Grantaire touches his cheek with gentle fingers. Enjolras tries to twist away, but Grantaire kisses him and puts an arm around his waist to pull him close, pinning his right arm by his side and taking a firm hold on his left wrist. Enjolras makes a noise that might have been meant to be a yell and tries to push him away. 

"Let me go, damn you!" 

Grantaire frowns, then embraces Enjolras again. "You don't have to fight me," he says softly. "Let me love you, Julien --" 

"Get _away_ from me--" Enjolras wrenches against his hold with the strength of panic. "God!" 

"Why the hell are you turning me down?" Grantaire takes hold of his shoulder. "If you were thinking for half a moment, you wouldn't. I must be the only person in this goddamned city you've never slept with -- and I'm the only one who would love you the way you deserve. How foolish are you? Why are you being prudish now, of all nights?" 

" _That's enough, Grantaire!_ " The rebuke echoes off the walls of the alleyway, and though Enjolras has not moved, there is, abruptly, nothing of the terrified boy in his look or in his voice. "If _you_ were thinking at all, you would know how disgraceful you are at this moment. Now take your hands off me, and get out of my way." 

Grantaire pales and backs away a step. "Julien -- you needn't yell, _mon ami_. Mon chéri. Please --" 

Enjolras slips out of his reach. "Be quiet. Go home. And you needn't come back tomorrow night, or at all, until you've come to your senses. Good night." 

"Julien -- I meant well. All of it. Please, don't be upset -- I don't mean to make you upset. Don't shout at me." Grantaire has ceased to be threatening and become abject. "Don't be angry." 

Enjolras draws a deep breath. "If you go home now, I won't be." 

"I'm sorry." Grantaire's shoulders slump. "I should have known." He turns away and begins trudging up the alley. 

Enjolras stands still, watching him out of sight and listening to his footsteps recede; then he buries his face in his hands, shaking. It is a minute or two before he calms enough to start, rather swiftly, toward home. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next day is a Sunday. Audric arrives home at about eleven in the morning, his clothes a little rumpled, but then, they usually are. He whistles a bright tune as he climbs the stairs and opens the door. "Good morning, Julien."

Julien is sitting quietly, leaning on the desk, looking as if he hasn't had much more than an hour's sleep. "Audric."

Audric blinks and looks a great deal less cheerful. "What's wrong? I'm sorry."

"Nothing's-- wrong. Now. Did you sleep well?" This last might be sardonic, but it's difficult to tell from his wavering tone.

Audric frowns. "What happened?"

"Who said anything happened?"

"You're confusing me." Audric pulls up a chair and sits down next to Julien. "What was wrong?"

"Grantaire." The name comes out flat and blunt; but then, of a sudden, Julien is shaking, vehement. "We can't have him here! Audric, do you hear me? We can't. He pays attention. I can't have it. He listens, you said to be careful!"

"All right." Audric touches his shoulder. "All right, beloved. We'll get him to go away, somehow."

Julien jerks away. "He wouldn't listen to me," incoherently. "I told him-- he kept-- he thought-- I--"

Audric blinks. "What, love?"

"I told him to let me alone, and he wouldn't let me alone, and I--"

"What do you mean?" softly.

"I told him _no_ ," Julien says as if Audric had suggested otherwise. "And he just kept going on, and he wouldn't let me go. I had to shout at him. He doesn't understand anything."

Audric has gone pale. "Did he hurt you? God, love, I'm sorry --"

"What?" It takes a moment for Julien's eyes to focus on him. "Hurt me? No. Only-- kept pawing at me--" He twitches slightly, and falls silent, seeming to collect himself somewhat.

"God." Audric makes a move to embrace him, then stops. "I'm sorry."

But Julien completes the embrace, clinging to him. "I love you." In a whisper, as though he's ashamed of the words.

"And I love you," more confidently. "I'm so sorry. I should have been with you." Audric strokes his hair. "I -- I don't know what to say."

"Do you see now?" Julien says into his shoulder, in a small, dry voice. "He listens. He knows too much and not enough."

"I see. Come sit on the bed with me, would you?"

Julien takes in a breath, and lets it out slowly. Then he nods.

Audric lets him go, stands, and offers him a hand up. "You look exhausted, love."

Julien gets up quietly. "I don't know. I slept for a while."

Audric embraces him again for a moment. "It couldn't have been a long while."

"I don't remember." Julien leans against him, passive.

"Perhaps you should try to go back to sleep," rubbing his shoulders.

"Will you stay with me?" It is the sort of tone Julien has from time to time, too innocent to be accusatory, too trustful to be plaintive, too matter-of-fact to be childish. "I missed you, last night..."

"Of course." Audric kisses him lightly. "I wouldn't leave you if I knew you needed me."

"All right." Julien relaxes, returning the kiss gravely.

"Julien --" Audric frowns and embraces him. "I'm sorry I left."

Julien strokes his shoulder with the benign absent-mindedness of the overtired. "If I'd minded, I'd have said."

Audric kisses his cheek and lets him go in order to sit on the bed. "I should have been with you. Surely he wouldn't have --"

Julien settles beside him. "Shh. I love you."

"As I love you." Audric kicks off his shoes. "You should probably try to sleep, _chéri._ "

"All right."

Audric touches his hair. "Do you want me to go to bed with you?"

Julien hugs him again, tightly. "If you want to."

"I would love to." Audric kisses his cheek. 


	29. Companionship: June, 1829

By the time the last few companions bestir themselves to leave Musain, it is close to midnight. Enjolras left some time ago, when things began to degenerate; Feuilly left not long after, having plans for the night. Courfeyrac and Combeferre have been talking idly together, but at last Combeferre realizes the hour and pushes back his chair to take his leave.

Courfeyrac touches his arm lightly, smiling at him. "We could continue this elsewhere, if you like."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Not tonight, Aimé. Julien is expecting me."

"Again." Courfeyrac tsks. "All right. --I miss you, you know."

Combeferre bites his lip. "And I you, but -- I should go home."

"Sure?"

Combeferre nods. "Quite."

Courfeyrac sighs, and smiles at him. "Good night, then. Take care."

Combeferre smiles back. "Good night." He leaves.

When the door has shut, Courfeyrac's smile fades. He sits back with a sigh, pushing both hands through his hair.

There is the sound of someone clucking his tongue. "Abandoned by all your friends, tonight, Aimé?" Grantaire asks, from where he has been half-listening and half-dozing in the corner.

Courfeyrac starts slightly, and looks over at him, composed again and wryly amused. "I beg your pardon?"

"Poor Aimé. All alone with no one to love him." Grantaire shakes his head. "A tragedy worthy of a great epic, if only I had the wit and the words, but I've had too much wine for that."

"So I see." Courfeyrac stretches, slouching in his chair. "Fortunately, my straits aren't that dire yet."

"No? Still have someone waiting at home, do you?"

A wicked grin. "Perhaps."

Grantaire gets up. "Lucky you, then. I should be getting home to my pitifully empty bed."

"Is it really?" Courfeyrac says lightly. "How depressing."

"One becomes accustomed to it, after the first decade or so," mildly.

Courfeyrac looks at him again, oddly intent. "I see."

"But then, would you know from experience?"

"You might be surprised," mildly in his turn.

Grantaire blinks at him. "Perhaps I would be, and perhaps not. Are you planning on being alone tonight, then?"

Courfeyrac's expression is a curious blend of irony and apprehension. "I wasn't planning on it, but it seems likely."

Grantaire shrugs. "Only if you want to be."

A slight lift of the eyebrows, questioning.

Grantaire shrugs again.

"I don't, particularly," Courfeyrac says quietly.

Grantaire offers him a hand, as a gentleman might offer his hand to a lady.

Courfeyrac studies him a moment, then stands, unassisted. "After you."

Grantaire smiles a little and goes out the door.

Courfeyrac follows, closing the door meticulously behind him.

"Well, did you say you had company waiting at home?" Grantaire asks.

"I said I might," calmly. "Stranger things have happened. However, I haven't looked."

"Shall I accompany you there, on the off-chance that your bed is occupied?"

Courfeyrac glances at him. "If you like."

Grantaire gives him a less than mirthful smile. "If you'll have me, it might be pleasant."

After a moment, Courfeyrac touches his shoulder lightly. "Why not?"

Grantaire's smile becomes more friendly. "I don't know why not, and I shan't conjecture for fear I'd scare you off. But -- lead on, let me see this oft occupied flat of yours, and find out if I'll have to stagger home alone in any case."

Courfeyrac grins a bit. "Very well." He starts down the street.

Grantaire follows closely, though he is not completely steady on his feet.

The walk is not terribly long, though it takes Grantaire out of what would otherwise be his way. Courfeyrac lets them in without a word.

"A well-appointed dwelling," Grantaire says, without much irony. "Though I must say I expected rather more of your decor, _mon ami._ "

"Really?" offhandedly. The light from the window is dim and pale. "How so?"

Grantaire shrugs. "More pictures on the walls? More clothing on the floor? I'm not entirely sure."

Courfeyrac chuckles a bit dryly. "Just how dissolute do you think I am?"

"One can never be sure." Grantaire puts a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. "How dissolute are you?"

Courfeyrac shrugs.

"Shall I go?"

"You needn't." Courfeyrac moves away, straightening the papers on his desk aimlessly. "I... could use the company."

Grantaire leans against the wall and watches him. "You don't seem to want it particularly, even if you could use it."

Courfeyrac turns swiftly to look at him. "I-- Truth?" It is, oddly, the straightforward tone that he would ordinarily use with one of his friends: do you want the honesty I promised you?

Grantaire looks wry. "Might as well tell the truth as lie, if you know what the truth is."

"I hate sleeping alone." Courfeyrac meets his eyes, nearly as wryly. His tone is brittle. "I don't particularly want anything of you. I don't mind-- but that isn't why I asked you. I just-- needed someone. To be here."

"Ah. Shall I sleep on m'sieur's floor, then, to be out of the way?"

"I didn't say that," more softly.

Grantaire shrugs. "You've odd affections, that's all."

Courfeyrac chuckles a bit. "You've only just now noticed?"

"I didn't say that. Just -- I don't know. Been a while since I shared a bed with somebody who wasn't a lover."

"Yes, well..." Courfeyrac sighs, leaning on the desk. "I wasn't entirely grasping at straws, you know."

"I suppose I don't mind, much." Grantaire shrugs. "Worse places to spend the night."

"Thank you," dryly.

"Well? If you want enthusiasm -- I can be enthusiastic. But probably not in moderation."

Courfeyrac grins suddenly, brightly. "Who cares for moderation?"

Grantaire smiles. "If you want to sleep, Aimery, you'll appreciate my attempts at moderation."

"Really," quirking a brow.

Grantaire gives him a mild look. "I'm not quite as, ah, popular as you are. Which is not to say I can't behave myself -- rather, I've had entirely too much practice at behaving."

Courfeyrac straightens, smiling. "That's a pity." He comes over to settle both hands on Grantaire's shoulders.

"Really. How so?" putting a hand on his hip, in return.

"Too much practice at anything gets dull." Courfeyrac bends to kiss him lightly.

"Ah. -- Are you quite sure you want to do this?"

"Why not?"

Grantaire smiles. "Any number of reasons, really -- but if I tell you, I might dissuade you." He kisses Courfeyrac.

* * *

Around noon, in a break between classes, Combeferre knocks on the door of Courfeyrac's flat, and stands there fidgetting with his sleeves until he hears an answer.

"Who is it?"

"Audric. May I come in?"

"Of course, _cher_."

Combeferre opens the door, walks in, and closes the door behind him. "I'm sorry about last night."

Courfeyrac has evidently just gotten dressed. He runs a hand through his tousled hair, and blinks. "No need. It's perfectly all right."

Combeferre smiles wistfully at him. "It's just that Julien has been out of sorts, recently, and I couldn't leave him."

"Of course not." Courfeyrac crosses the room to embrace him. "Why, what's the matter with him?"

"He --" Combeferre accepts the embrace. "Really, I shouldn't tell you, except --" He sighs. "Grantaire upset him a few weeks ago."

Courfeyrac blinks. "Again?"

"Worse than last time." Combeferre bites his lip. "He was rather -- aggressive."

"What, did they fight?" Courfeyrac pulls back a little, bemused.

Combeferre shakes his head. "No. Nothing like that. Grantaire was, um. Rather rude."

"More than usual?" lightly.

"Differently than usual." Combeferre waves a hand.

Courfeyrac frowns. "What are you talking about, Audric?"

Combeferre winces. "I don't know how to explain, because he didn't actually accomplish anything, but he -- made unwelcome advances."

Courfeyrac blinks again. "You're joking." But the protest is automatic.

"No." Combeferre sighs. "I wish I were, but I would never jest about something as serious as this."

"I know you wouldn't. Just-- God." Courfeyrac glances away, frowning.

"I'm sorry. -- Please, don't tell Julien I told you. He would be embarrassed."

"When was this?"

"Two weeks ago." Combeferre touches his shoulder. "I should have told you sooner, perhaps."

"Yes. Most likely." Courfeyrac shakes his head.

"He hasn't said anything to you, has he?"

"No," frowning.

Combeferre touches his cheek. "Good."

"No. Not really." Courfeyrac reaches up to take his hand. "How are you this morning?"

"What do you mean?" Combeferre asks, disregarding the second question.

"How is your health, how are your spirits, do things go well or are you simply muddling through?"

"No. I meant -- why is it not good that Grantaire hasn't approached you?" 

Courfeyrac sighs. "I didn't say he hadn't approached me. I said he told me nothing of this."

"God, Aimé, why didn't you tell me?" Combeferre hugs him tightly. "I'm sorry, _chéri_."

Courfeyrac returns the hug roughly. "Yes, well, it's not your fault. Next time I'll know better."

"What?" Combeferre asks, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?" Courfeyrac's tone is harsh with chagrin. "He was here last night. He left a couple of hours ago. If I'd known this yesterday--"

Combeferre lets him go and takes several steps back. "God, Aimery."

"Yes," dryly. "I'll think rather long and hard before I do it again."

Combeferre shudders and turns away, crossing his arms defensively. "I don't understand you at all."

"What the hell is there not to understand? Did you expect me to know?"

"He may not wear his sins listed on his face, but he's not a pleasant man. You couldn't have borne to be alone for a night?" Combeferre's voice grows sharp.

Courfeyrac turns away. After a moment he says thinly, "All right. Go ahead and be angry with me, get it out of your system. I don't have the heart to fight with you today."

"I don't want to fight with you." Combeferre sounds tired. "I'll leave you alone."

"Damn it, Audric," tiredly. "Don't assume. Don't jump to conclusions."

"I didn't assume anything. You told me he spent the night here." Combeferre turns again and gives him a pained look. "I miss you, Aimery, you must know that -- but perhaps it's better if I continue to do so."

"Oh, Christ." Courfeyrac swings around to face him. "Daniel's dropped me for his ladylove, now you're going to drop me for doing something you neglected to warn me against, and you wonder why I look elsewhere for company? _Don't assume_ , Audric, and don't come the noble martyr with me." His indignation acquires a note of pleading. "I do the best I can."

"It isn't just this. Julien is still terribly upset." Combeferre frowns at Courfeyrac. "I can't just run off on him, not now, even if I were inclined to do so. It's not just about last night, or Grantaire, or anyone. God." He gives Courfeyrac a wan smile. "I'll forgive you last night -- which was an honest mistake, though it disgusts me -- if you promise it won't happen again. But that doesn't mean I feel free to spent the night with you."

But Courfeyrac scowls. "Oh, how gracious of you. I appreciate your magnanimity. I don't need your forgiveness for making honest mistakes -- which you might have prevented, if you had a little more care for common sense and a little less for pride -- and I didn't ask you to spend the night with me."

"Aimé," more softly, "it wasn't my place to tell you or anyone else, no my choice to keep it secret. And -- no. I suppose you'd rather not see me tonight, though you protest that I'm abandoning you. That's just as well." Combeferre sighs. "I would have told you, if I'd thought Julien would be all right for half an evening. And I don't mean to sound martyred -- just busy."

Courfeyrac clenches one hand, then relaxes it. "And I don't mean to reproach you for being busy. Just-- don't expect me to sleep alone until Julien's nerves are recovered, that's all."

"When have I ever expected you to be chaste?" Combeferre asks, dryly.

Courfeyrac gives him a small, wry smile. "Good. Don't start now."

"I haven't. -- Damn it, I hate fighting with you."

Courfeyrac offers a hug, mutely.

Combeferre hugs him. "I'm sorry, Aimé."

"It's all right." Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. "No harm done, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"I suppose not." Combeferre kisses his cheek.

Courfeyrac returns the kiss. "Ah, _mon frère._ "

"Am I forgiven?"

"Of course, if you like."

"I would prefer it to being unforgiven." Combeferre squeezes him a little, then lets him go.

Courfeyrac smiles at him. "I should be going, really. Walk with me?"

"All right." Combeferre kisses his cheek again and turns toward the door.


	30. Disinclination: July, 1829

In the heat of July, anyone who cannot afford to leave the city does their level best to stay in the coolest possible places. Many people also take trips up the Seine in order to bathe in it before it becomes Paris' cesspool. On one such trip, Prouvaire and Enjolras acquire bright sunburns. Courfeyrac comes back only a little pinkened, as does Combeferre. Laigle and Joly declined to take part in the gathering, in favor of visiting Laigle's remaining family in Meaux. Bahorel has become quite tanned earlier in the summer, and he grins somewhat sympathetically at his friends' painful noses and ears. 

Around dusk, when the heat of the day starts to fade, they gather for a light supper and an informal discussion, but no real meeting. Grantaire is also there. To all appearances, he has spent much of the afternoon in the cafe, drinking wine. Most of those present are tired from swimming and sunshine, and it is not long before the friends begin to depart -- Enjolras and Combeferre with their heads together, Bahorel with an arm around Prouvaire, solicitously shepherding him homeward. "Good night," Courfeyrac says affectionately to the latter pair as they start out the door together.

Bahorel grins at him. "Goodnight, Aimery."

Prouvaire yawns, theatrically wide. "Do give Daniel our regards, when you see him."

Courfeyrac shakes his head. "If I see him before Christmas, I will."

Prouvaire clucks his tongue. "I'm sure it won't be so very long." He rubs his eyes in the manner of a tired little boy. "Good night, _chéri_."

Courfeyrac chuckles, and pats his shoulder. "Good night, _petit frère_. Goodnight, Chris. Take care, both of you."

"Oh, we will," Bahorel says. "Don't worry." With that, they leave.

There is the sound of a chair scraping across the floor behind Courfeyrac as Grantaire pushes it back from his table and stands.

Courfeyrac turns away from the door with a sigh, moving to collect his belongings, then pauses at the unexpected noise. "And goodnight to you, too," he says mildly.

Grantaire gives him a bemused smile. "And I thought you didn't care for sleeping alone. Is it the heat, then? I'm sure it's too warm to think of doing anything but sleeping."

"Yes, it is, rather." Courfeyrac shrugs.

"Would you care for company, then?"

"No," tersely. "Thank you."

Grantaire blinks. "Was I that unpleasant to you?"

Courfeyrac meets his eyes for a moment. "Not to me, no."

Grantaire frowns. "Then what's the problem?"

"I tend not to go home with people who offend my friends." Courfeyrac pushes his chair under the table.

"What -- oh." Grantaire shakes his head. "If I'd seen Enjolras for half a moment between then and now, without his lover hanging all over him, I'd have cleared up the misunderstanding. I can't imagine he was that offended; a boy that pretty must get remarks all the time."

"Really?" coolly. "You don't know him very well."

Grantaire shrugs. "Perhaps. I'd still have said something to him, if the opportunity had presented itself, which it didn't. -- I didn't do anything to him, you know."

Courfeyrac gives him a level look. "Enjolras is not given to upsetting himself over nothing."

"I touched his shoulder, maybe." Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't know, now, what it all was, but it wasn't anything more than that."

"So you say."

"God!" Grantaire waves a hand. "What do you think I am? I didn't hurt him. I didn't force him into anything."

Courfeyrac scowls. "I don't _know_ what you are, except drunk half the time, and yes, I'd take Julien's word or Audric's over yours. For all I know you knocked him down and didn't remember it in the morning."

Grantaire wipes one hand over his face. "God, no. I hardly touched him, I'll swear to that. And your Audric, what does he know? He wasn't there."

"Clearly." Courfeyrac shrugs tiredly. "I'm not accusing you of anything -- except offending Enjolras, whom I have never known to take offense at nothing. Good night."

"If I'd known he was that upset, I'd have talked to him about it." Grantaire frowns. "I don't understand any of this, or any of you. You'll play any games you want, won't you, and bedamned to me if I so much as ask why."

Courfeyrac looks at him again. "Then why do you come back?"

"Where else can I pretend that such charming company wants me around?" Grantaire shrugs. "It's a lovely pageant in here, most nights, the way you all talk. It would be easier if some of you didn't hate me -- and I didn't think you did hate me, Aimery, but I've been wrong before."

Courfeyrac sighs. "I don't hate you. I don't like you particularly, either. If you want to be liked, pressing your attentions upon one of our nearest and dearest is not the way to go about it."

Grantaire bangs his hand on the table. "By God, I didn't do anything to him. If I had, do you honestly think I'd be anywhere near any of you? I asked, and he said no, and that was that. Will you condemn me for that?"

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. "I'm not condemning you. I'm declining to walk home with you. Leave it at that."

"I didn't think you wanted to, after all that. Just -- don't accuse me of anything I didn't do, and we'll be even."

"Very well."

Grantaire says something, very quietly.

Courfeyrac pauses. "Pardon?"

"What the hell do you care?" Grantaire glares at him.

A moment's hesitation. "Nothing, I'm sure." He turns away toward the door.

"It was kind of you. Charitable, to put up with me." Grantaire's voice is rougher than usual.

"No," quietly. "It wasn't."

"Take a goddamn' compliment. It can't cost you that much."

Courfeyrac stands silently for a minute; then he bends his head, and goes out. Grantaire swears and sits down heavily in the chair where he has been all evening.


	31. Dalliance (Courfeyrac): August, 1829

This is luxury: waking in a haze of golden light, bathed in warmth, with Christophe's solid, sleepy presence at my back. The curtains are still drawn, so that it takes me a moment to realize that it's morning. Afterimages of the night's pleasure play over my skin. I haven't slept so well in a year.

I stretch a little, rousing Christophe, who nuzzles the back of my neck drowsily. "Morning."

"Morning, yourself. God, I'm comfortable." This is an understatement. I am giving serious consideration to staying here all day. 

"Are you?" I can see his smirk -- lazy, smug, devious -- as clearly as if I were facing him. "How nice."

"It is, at that. And you're plotting to make me less so, aren't you?"

"Whyever would I do that?" Christophe shifts slightly under the covers to run a hand down my side, in a manner calculated to make me squirm.

Which it does. "Mmm. Why are you so irresistible, you lout?"

"To make your life difficult, _mon Aimé_."

"I thought so."

He chuckles, pleased with himself, and I abandon my blissful cocoon of blankets to turn and kiss him. 


	32. Solace (Joly): August, 1829

"Are you asleep?" Scraps of moonlight gleam through her hair like white jewels as she leans over him. Her face is hidden in shadow. Chrétien slides an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. 

"Not yet."

"All right." She settles against him.

"Why?"

Silence, from under the cloaking fall of dark hair.

"'Chetta."

"Only wondered."

He twines a curl around his finger, watching the way it shimmers. "Going to abscond as soon as I shut my eyes?"

"No!"

"I wouldn't blame you," he says, suddenly glum. 

"Oh, stop. Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me."

Chretien hugs her tighter. "No. After the trouble I had to get this far?"

Muffled laughter. "You're a terrible boy."

"Oh, you don't know half of it."

"Chrétien." She pokes him in the ribs, gently, and traces a finger between his shoulder blades. Gives him a tap for emphasis. "I _like_ you."

In the dark, he can't see her laughing eyes. Her voice is grave. "Hell," he says, biting down on a stammer, and just holds her, then.


	33. Studies (Feuilly): October, 1829

The picture made Rosalie leave -- not the finished picture, but the first draft. If I had not put so much work and money into it, if I had not bought oil paints, a canvas, and an easel, perhaps she would not have wanted to see it as badly as she did. It was ambitious of me to think that I could do what I wanted to with the oils, even though I was working from sketches and memory, but I meant to create something much grander than my normal work.

She was intrigued by the canvas from the first day, when she complained about the smell and the bother I'd gone to in order to prime it properly. "What are you painting now?"

"A portrait."

She shook her head. "I'd have thought you do enough painting at work. Why are you doing it in your spare time?"

"It's going to be a present." I should have told her then that it was for a friend, but she didn't ask. She assumed that it was for her, and, therefore, that it was of herself. I never showed it to her to prove her assumptions wrong. I kept the easel turned to the wall when I wasn't working on it, with the canvas draped carefully to prevent insects from getting themselves stuck in the wet paint. It was the size of a small window, perhaps the length of my forearm on each side. I could not have hidden it anywhere. The sketches stayed in my volume of Plato where they had been since I began then, and where Rosalie would never look for anything.

I never explicitly told her not to look at the canvas. I knew that would be more tempting than implicitly trusting her not to peer at it. And she didn't look until it had been there two months. If she'd looked before, it might not have been such a problem; I could have amended it, perhaps, or changed it so that I really was painting her. I hadn't worked on the face much, but the Sunday before I had spent a great deal of time getting the shading just so in the hair.

On a warm October evening, she kissed me and got out of bed. We had been making love a few minutes before. I was filled with lassitude and a calm trust in the world, and specifically in Rosalie. Her pale blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. She had appropriated one of my shirts to serve as a nightshift, for she was too modest to sleep in the nude, and not willing to admit that she might possibly spend the night with me until she actually did it. She lit the candle and set it on the table by the bed. I smiled at her and said, "Ah, _mon ange,_ you are lovely like that. Come back to bed and kiss me."

"In a moment. I want to see how your painting of me is coming along." She turned the easel. I sat up, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Rosalie, don't --"

But she ignored me and pulled off the cover, with a flourish and a shriek. "Who is she?"

I couldn't answer. I was afraid she would scream again, and my ego was offended. I blinked at the painting, at two months of work, and repeated, "She?"

Rosalie stabbed a finger at the auburn-tressed figure on the canvas. "My hair is not that color, _monsieur l'artiste._ Who's your model? Does she always pose in the nude? When were you going to leave me for her?" She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. "I thought you loved me."

"I do," I protested.

"Who is she?"

I hesitated a moment. "A friend of mine."

"Liar!" She took off the shirt she had borrowed and threw it at me, then covered her nudity with her hands, an infuriated, betrayed Venus.

"I've never made love to her, _cherie._ Never."

She wasn't listening to me. She dressed as quickly as she could, weeping and haranguing me all the while. "I thought it was so romantic, that you were an artist, so poetic and beautiful, and I thought you were an innocent sort of artist, only painting birds and flowers and landscapes and hills and things. Oh, if I'd only known, you cad, you horrible man, you took such advantage of me. I was so naive. You probably had her in here every night you couldn't seduce me, fiend. So that's your damned meeting, that's your friend, is she, that's how you spent all those evenings when you just couldn't see me. Oh, my friends were right, they warned me, they did, about you and girls like your brunette slut, your model, your dirty whore. You can take her and go to hell!"

"It's not like that. Please, Rosalie, give me a moment."

"The hell I will!" She put her shoes on and opened the door before she tied them. "You can go on painting her and any other tramp who'll lift her skirts for you, but you don't have to hide it from me, not anymore. I'm never coming back here again." She stormed out and slammed the door.

I sat on the bed and sighed, not sure if I could have said anything else to calm her, not certain how upset I was that she had gone. I took the candle from the table and examined my painting closely, and what had seemed glowing, alive, and real a day before looked terribly wrong. I took out the sketches, compared them to the final product, and swore. It had not been imagination or assumption that made Rosalie see a woman on the canvas. There was a feminine wideness in the hips, the curve of the thighs, a roundness of the breast which were not in my charcoal sketches, and which were certainly not true to life.

I had drawn Aimery without telling him that I was doing it, over the course of the spring before I'd met Rosalie. I'd slip out of bed and put on a light, then sketch him, sleeping on his stomach with one arm crooked, empty, in the attitude of a little boy who has misplaced his doll in his dreams. I liked most of the charcoals, and I could recognize him in them. Between the sketches and the painting, though, I had spent a great deal more time with Rosalie than with Aimery. It was more a portrait of her than she could have guessed. I knew I would have to repaint a great deal of the body. To cover the original mistakes, I would have to change the color of the sheets; it would not do to have a ghost image show against the white.

I couldn't think about Rosalie and what an idiot I'd been with her, so I looked at the painting and thought about how to fix my peculiar mistake. It would not be impossible, only a lot of work. And why had I painted a woman's body, expecting to put a man's face on it -- the inverse of Michelangelo's odd women, those men with out-of-place breasts? I think it was partially that I had not been around Aimery a great deal, but partially that I was trying to paint him as a beautiful person, which he is, in his own right. But I had trouble thinking clearly, I suppose, and when I did not have the chance to look at him, I forgot what he really was and remembered a somewhat idealized, somewhat odd image of him, as if only a woman's body could be beautiful and desirable.

The next night, there was a meeting. I had planned to attend it, leave early, and visit Rosalie. Instead, I arrived early and approached Aimery as soon as he came in. He had been walking with Jehan, and I gave them both a brief smile before I touched Aimery's shoulder and said, "Excuse me, Jehan -- Aimé, I need to speak to you."

Aimery blinked and smiled. "Of course, Daniel." We sat at a table together. I could not immediately explain any of it. "What's on your mind?" he asked me softly.

"Rosalie left." I shrugged.

"Ah." He sat back in his chair. "With someone else?"

"No. She was upset with me." I knew he would want to know as much as I was willing to tell him, which put me in a difficult situation. I had promised not to lie to him, but I wanted to surprise him with my present when it was finished.

"Did she have a good reason to be upset with you?" He touched my arm lightly, and I gave him a weak smile -- only partially an act.

"It was a misunderstanding, but she wouldn't let me explain." I shrugged again. "I suppose -- if she's going to be that upset over something that's not really a problem -- I'm better off without her." It was easier to say that, easier to think that when I was with him. The night before, I had felt utterly alone, failed, unable to do anything right.

Aimery smiled again, which made it easy to smile back at him. "Better to have someone you can talk to, _n'est-ce pas?_ "

"Yes. Yes, it is. Aimery --"

"Hm?"

I looked at the table again. I felt as though I should be more upset over losing her, more willing to mourn her loss. To run from my newly empty bed to his would be cowardly. "I shouldn't ask."

"Daniel." He touched my shoulder. "Look at me." His expression was uncharacteristically earnest. "I would be glad of your company, _mon frère,_ and -- it needn't be anything but company. You know that."

"Yes. It's just -- it was yesterday."

He shrugged. "So you don't want to be alone. That's all right."

I looked at him a moment and sighed. "You're terrible."

He blinked at me. "I am?"

"Yes. You're awful. As though I could say, 'No, Aimery, honestly I'd rather go home than be with you.'" I kept my voice level and my expression bland, but I saw him grin. "I'm not allowed to lie to you, so I can't turn you down tactfully."

"Ah, is that it." He touched my cheek. "I don't know if the rules and regulations really prohibit tact."

I smiled at him. "Maybe not. It would be difficult to judge, I'd think."

"Quite. But we could ask, if you like -- ah, good evening, Julien."

The meeting took place with little help from me, for I had little to say on the subject of inheritance rights and taxes, and even if I had wanted to contribute to the discussion, I couldn't pay attention for long intervals. Every now and then, Aimery would glance at me and give me a small, encouraging smile or touch my shoulder. 

At the end of the evening when everyone was departing, Christophe approached Aimery with a grin. "Aimé, I've found the loveliest place -- with the best girls --"

Aimery shook his head. "Not tonight, Christophe."

He blinked and looked at me. "Oh?" I shrugged. "Another time, then."

"Another time," Aimery agreed.

"I'll be thinking of you, _chéri._ " Christophe turned and left.

"If you'd wanted to go --"

Aimery kissed my cheek. "I haven't seen you in months."

I laughed. "You've seen me twice a week at least."

"I haven't kissed you in months, then, my literal-minded brother."

" -- not here."

He shook his head. "Of course not. What do you take me for?"

I gave him a brief smile. "Many things. Let's go."

I had not intended to kiss him that evening, either in friendship or in desire, and I had thought that if he offered me caresses I could think on my recent loss and say truthfully that I would rather not. I had forgotten the sweet madness that overtook me when I was with him. He embraced me when we reached his flat, and that was enough to infect me with his buoyant joy. I could no more have refused him than I could have gone home alone.

Afterward, I kissed him -- the hundredth kiss we shared that night, perhaps, for he was as glad to relearn the textures of my body as I was eager to remember the way he looked. "I missed you."

"Did you?" He grinned at me.

"You must have noticed."

"I admit I had a vague impression of something like that."

I nuzzled his shoulder. "I'm sure you did."

We said nothing more for several minutes until the silence grew too heavy and he asked, softly, "Are you falling asleep?"

"No, not yet. I was thinking -- I ought to do this properly, this time through."

Aimery blinked. "How do you mean?"

"I mean --" I could feel myself blushing. "I should learn how to make love to you. Really, not just -- not just what I would have to do for any of them."

He kissed me at great length, winding his fingers into my hair. "You needn't," he said, breathlessly. "I wouldn't ask that of you if you didn't enjoy it."

"I'm a pathetic lover if I can't do anything much for you, aren't I?"

He shook his head. "You do a great deal for me."

"As a brother. As a friend, maybe. Not as a lover."

"As all of those things, Daniel."

I frowned. "I just wish -- oh." Starting the sentence had given me the end of it in my mind, but I didn't like what I'd been about to say.

"What?"

I hid my face in his shoulder. "Nothing. It's petty."

He touched my cheek, but I didn't look up. "What is it?" gently.

"I wish that if Christophe or Jehan or Audric or somebody wanted your company, you'd say no because you'd rather be with me. I told you, it's petty."

"Didn't I do that?"

"Because you didn't want me to be heartbroken." I shrugged.

"Because I love you." His voice was firm.

"Not because I'm particularly -- anything at all as a lover, though."

Aimery was quiet for a minute, running his fingers through my hair and searching for words. "You're never going to be the most skillful lover in Paris," he began.

I interrupted him, keeping my tone light, "I know, Aimé. I could never hope to best you."

"That's not what I mean. I mean I don't ask you to be, or expect you to be, and I never did."

"Yes, but -- " I frowned at him.

"But if I want someone to fuck, I'll find someone." He put a finger over my lips as though I had been about to protest. "If I want the best company I can find, then I'll talk to you."

"That's what I mean, though." I kissed his finger. "I don't want you to want to go somewhere else just because I'm boring in bed."

"You are not. Daniel --"

"With you? In this?" I shook my head. "I know my limitations."

"Then accept them. If I want to go somewhere else, if I want to be with someone else, it probably doesn't have anything to do with you, anymore than you found Rosalie because you were tired of me."

"I suppose that's fair," I admitted, though it was somewhat unfair of him to mention Rosalie.

"All right, then." He kissed me.

I ran a hand down his chest. "So you want me to languish in ignorance and innocence, then?"

"If that's what makes you happiest."

"I don't know, anymore."

After a moment, "I would be glad -- honored -- to teach you, if you wanted."

I felt myself blush. "I don't know."

"Consider it a standing offer, then."

"All right."

He fell asleep not long after this tentative proposition, and I would have done likewise if I hadn't been determined to stay awake in order to draw. I had no paper of my own, nor any charcoal, but once I had lit a candle, I found the former on his desk and the latter in the grate, grubby but sufficient. In the process of drawing him, I found the lines that I had blurred in my painting, the mistakes I had made that were not Aimé, and I relearned what he truly was.

I also borrowed his pen and did a careful study of his face. That would be the hardest part of the painting; I had little practice painting anything but generically beautiful or handsome faces, and it would be a challenge to represent someone I knew in a recognizable manner. When I finished, I folded the ink drawing and put it at the bottom of the stack of my more malleable sketches, then washed my hands and went back to bed. 

I slept more soundly with him than I could remember having slept with Rosalie. With her, I always felt as though I was somewhat awake, even in dreams. With Aimery, I felt perfectly safe, enough to let myself be completely unconscious, in the state where I didn't remember any dreams I might have had.

The following weeks were a struggle for me between feeling as though I ought to work on my painting and wanting to be with Aimery. I started to appreciate the nights when he was otherwise occupied because they forced me to go home and be productive. I toyed with the idea of inviting him home with me, but he was not Rosalie. He would have insisted on looking at the canvas, and I could not have thought of any reason to refuse him. I didn't want him to know it existed until the right time.

His habits were irregular and unpredictable, especially when I had to balance them against the necessity of waiting for the last work to dry. There were nights when I could have gone with him because the scarlet I'd chosen to replace the white sheets was drying around a critical area, but he'd have plans. They were not as bad as the nights when I had been toying with getting a detail just so and he would give me that smile and I would swear under my breath and tell him I was too tired to be good company and I preferred to go home. Thanks to the difficulties of coordinating two impossible things, I didn't spend more than a night a week with him, much as I would have liked to have spent every night by his side. We both forgot his kind offer of instruction, or pretended we had, for I had other things on my mind. I was having a torrid, engaging affair with a painting.

It wasn't finished until the second week of December. I spent two fruitless evenings looking at it and dabbing at it on nights when I had to turn Aimery down. When I stopped, irritated with myself, I realized that if I spent any more time on it, I would ruin it. I shook my head, composed a brief note, and went to sleep, wishing I had gone with him after all.

Having it framed was another struggle. I didn't want to admit to having painted what was finally, clearly, a naked man. I discussed it with some of my colleagues -- in the context of having painted an intimate picture of my mistress -- and they gave me conflicting advice. I listened to one of them and had it framed by one of the artists who made his living doing bland scenes of Paris and selling them to whomever he could find to buy them. He didn't ask who had painted the canvas, and I didn't tell him. 

My impatience got the better of me once it was all done. On the seventeenth of December, Aimery left the café with Jehan. I had heard them planning to go to the latter's flat. I went home, wrapped the painting carefully, and carried it and the accompanying note to Aimery's home. The concierge gave my bundle a curious look when I told her it was a present for Monsieur Courfeyrac and could she please let me in to his flat so that I could surprise him. She hovered in the doorway while I leaned it against his desk and set the note in the middle of the book he'd left open.

"I hope he likes it, m'sieur," she said, and I nodded.

"I hope he does, too."

"What is it?"

"Only a portrait."

"Ah." She gave me a long look, then shrugged.

I looked over the scene. It was hardly a Christmas tree, that overburdened desk burgeoning with papers, but then my note was hardly a special card. It said, "I found this in one of those painters' stalls and it reminded me of you, a little. Merry Christmas -- Daniel."

Aimery came knocking on my door the next evening only a few moments after I got home from work. "I know you're home, the concierge told me."

My stomach twisted a little. I was afraid he had hated it, that after all my work he'd believe the note I left -- which was why I'd left it, in case I had so overestimated my own skill that I would rather disown the canvas than admit to it. "Come in."

He was grinning. "I found your present." He shut the door behind himself.

"Oh, did you?" I kept my expression bland for the moment between saying that and having the wind knocked out of me. He embraced me and kissed me all at once, half-knocking me off my feet into bed, though I was only too glad to fall into bed with him.

"Where on earth do you expect me to put that?" He kissed me again before I could answer.

I smiled. "Your bedroom seems a perfectly logical place."

He shook his head. "And when Pontmercy finds himself in dire straits again, what do I tell him?"

I frowned, uncomfortable with the idea of anyone who wouldn't appreciate the painting looking at it. "I don't know. Tell him you had an artistic mistress."

He shook his head again, slowly, and touched my cheek as gently as though he were learning the lines in order to paint my portrait. "Anyone who knows me well will know I've never had a girl around long enough to do something like that for me."

"I'm sorry. I thought --"

He put his hand over my mouth. "It's splendid. I love it. I love you. God, Daniel, you're amazing."

"I am not."

"You are entirely wonderful." He kissed me lightly. "Would you like to see what I've done with your handiwork?"

"I suppose." I shrugged, though I wanted to know exactly where he'd put it almost as badly as what he thought of it. "We ought to go to the meeting."

"Damn the meeting. Come home with me." He tangled his fingers in my hair and kissed me again.

"All right, you've convinced me."

He had hung it in his bedroom, as I suggested, but behind the door so that it was not immediately apparent when one first walked into the room. "This way," he explained, "if it's someone who probably wouldn't want to see it, I can leave the door open -- or at least, I can leave it open until we've put out the light, and then close it."

"Ingenious." I crossed my arms and admired it in its new home, framed in light wood and surrounded by the dingy plaster of the walls.

He embraced me from behind and murmured, "Yes, you are."

I turned and hugged him. "If you don't like it, say so."

"I like it very much, _mon frère,_ and I'm not the only one who does." He smiled at me. "You wouldn't worry so if you'd seen Jehan's face. He laughed and started suggesting names for it -- Endymion, Ganymede, that sort of thing -- all the while teasing me about being careful who I allow into my bed if people are going to do things like that."

I chuckled. "I hadn't named it, actually, except for the obvious name."

"Which is -- ?"

" _Mon Aimé,_ of course."

He laughed. "Of course. Oh, and it's only fair to warn you that Christophe wants a copy."

"He -- oh, dear."

Aimery kissed me again. "Don't worry, _chéri._ I told them that I expected the artist would be very busy in the next few months -- at the very least."

"Oh?"

His lips twitched with a suppressed grin. "Christophe only wants a copy. Audric's going to want this to be the first in a series."

I blushed and looked away. "Oh."

"Daniel," softly, "I'm teasing you."

"I see that."

"Don't be upset."

I kissed his cheek. "I'm not. I'm -- I don't know. Embarrassed, probably."

"Shh, don't fret. I'll tell Audric you're too busy, too."

I blinked. "What exactly are you planning, then?"

He shrugged. "I thought you were saying something about wanting to spend more time with me -- or have you grown tired of me after looking at that for however long it took you?"

"Aimery --" I embraced him. "I could never grow tired of you."

"I've never given you much of a chance, now, have I?" His voice was light, but he wouldn't say that sort of thing unless he was upset.

" _Mon frère,_ don't worry." I kissed his cheek lightly. " _Je t'aime_."

"I know, and I love you, but -- ah, you've outdone me."

I smiled. "Ah, I've finally found a way to best you at something, then?"

He gave me a brief smile. "Yes, and you did it with such panache. I'd thought you'd found some other girl, the way you kept turning away from me."

"No. Nothing like that, beloved, not at all."

"I see that. Now." He waved a hand at the painting.

"All right." I hesitated a moment. "Would you -- "

"Would I what?" gently.

I had to look away from him to ask the question. I fixed my gaze on the wall and said, "Would you like to go to bed with me, now that I'm not too busy to, to learn something? I mean --"

He interrupted me with a kiss. "I would be glad to. Don't you know that?"

I shrugged. "I can't imagine it'll be all that pleasant for either of us at first."

"I can be patient."

"Really? Ah, that's a feat I'd like to see."

Aimery ran his fingers through my hair. "I'll have to demonstrate, then." He grinned at me. " _Je t'aime, mon frère._ "

I smiled back. " _Je t'aime aussi._ But you must have known that."

"Yes. I did know that."

"Good."

It began then, though it was too cold to do much without the benefit of sheets. I could not have left him; he wouldn't have allowed it for any but the most pressing of reasons. He grinned at me and built up the fire, saying, "It wouldn't do to pause, really, and we don't want frostbite."

That gave me the opportunity to kiss him when he was done and tangle my fingers in his hair. "As though I could be cold in your arms."

"Flattery, _mon frère_ \--"

I kissed him again. "What, are you having second thoughts?"

"Second thoughts? I've had a hundred thoughts since we got here, and all of them about you."

I laughed. "Fair enough."

He touched my cheek lightly. "Why, would you rather not?"

For a moment, I considered this question. I wanted to make certain that I told him the truth. "I want this. I think."

"All right. If you change your mind --"

"You'll know as soon as I do."

"Good." We kissed again, long and lingering, and wrestled with the labyrinthine buttons on each other's clothing all the while. He had more practice than I in undressing another man; he had my shirt open well before I'd bested his.

I shivered and broke the kiss. "Perhaps we should take this somewhere a little warmer."

"We could do that. It's easier to get your pants off this way, though," and he demonstrated.

"Aimery, it's freezing in here."

He gave me a smile that would have been innocent in another context. "Is it?"

"Yes." I unbuttoned his pants. "Let's go to bed. Please."

"If you're going to be impatient, this will be difficult." He wagged a finger at me and I laughed.

"I'm not impatient, I'm cold. Hurry up." We shed our pants and got into bed. We still had our shirts on, unbuttoned but warmer than thoroughly bare arms. I hissed when I felt his legs against mine. "You're like ice."

"Only in spots." He shifted a little and embraced me to prove that his torso was quite warm.

"Yes, but the cold spots are colder than the warm spots are warm."

He shook his head. "Would you have me get dressed again?"

I pulled him close. "No. I'm sorry."

"Daniel --"

"Yes?"

"The first rule of this is that you're not to apologize unless you've actually hurt me. All right?"

I blinked. "All right."

"And when I say hurt, I mean hurt. Not frustrated, not impatient, not a little bit uncomfortable. Hurt."

"I heard you."

He kissed me, but afterward he returned to the same question. "Promise me you won't apologize over nothing."

"I never do."

"Promise."

I shook my head a little. "Are you always like this with new lovers?"

"Only if it matters. Please."

"I promise." We sealed the promise with another kiss.

Aimery smiled at me brightly and began trailing kisses down my collarbone. " _Je t'aime._ "

"And I love you. What did you have in mind, just now?"

"If you're prepared, I thought you might want your first lesson."

I shrugged. "All right."

His grin widened. "All right, he says. Do you think it'll be that bad?"

"I don't know, Aimé."

He blinked. "You don't have to."

I frowned. "I want to."

"You don't sound as though you do."

I shrugged again. "How am I supposed to sound, then?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. It's not torture."

"I know -- I know. Just -- get on with it."

" _Chéri._ What kind of teacher would I be if I just got on with it?" To demonstrate his capacity for thorough attention, he carefully bathed a small patch of skin just below my solar plexus.

I closed my eyes. "I don't know. What were you going to teach me?"

"All manner of things, if you wanted to learn them."

"Right now?"

"No." He ran a hand down my chest. "I was going to give you a demonstration."

"Of -- oh." Part of me wanted to object that I had intended to change this balance between us so that it would not always entail me asking him for pleasure, and part remembered all too well what he was offering. I compromised. "I've seen you do that before, you know."

Aimery laughed. "I know, but you weren't paying attention."

I spluttered. "What are you talking about? Of course I was."

"All right, then, tell me what I should do."

I felt myself blush. "I -- you just -- how am I supposed to describe a thing like that?"

"If you can't describe it," he said, his tone as bland as if he were not fondling me, "you can't do it, so I'll have to demonstrate."

"I'm sorry."

He poked me in the thigh. "Daniel, don't."

"I -- all right."

"As though I mind, beloved. In any case, as I was saying, you'll have to pay attention."

I took a deep breath. "All right. I think. Probably."

He chuckled and patted my thigh companionably. "If you get too distracted, I'll stop."

"Won't that -- um -- ruin the timing?"

"Timing, _mon frère_ , is by way of being the easy part. Now. Are you ready?"

I bit my lip hard, looking for some clarity of mind in the pain. "Yes." Aimery grinned at me again, then ducked under the covers. I gasped. "Not fair."

He paused and kissed my thigh. "No? What did I just do?"

"I don't know, I couldn't see you."

"If it were dark in here --"

"If it were dark in here, I wouldn't be able to see you, but it's not and I can't say that kind of thing, especially if I can't see it."

He pushed back the covers. "Tell me if you get cold, then. And pay attention."

"I am," I protested, and if it sounded impatient, I am sure he knew why.

What followed was an excruciatingly long, painstaking lesson. It felt as though it went on for hours, though it couldn't have been anywhere near that long. He would do something unspeakable, then stop and ask me what it was in a diabolically calm voice while I tried to remember what a word was, what the words I wanted were, and how to put them into a sentence. Near the end of it, even though in some part of my mind I knew what it was he was doing, I couldn't explain, and I might not have been able to if he hadn't been driving me out of my mind. When my patience finally ended, I told him, "If you don't -- don't let this finish -- I'm -- going to kill you. Really," and that made him laugh, but it also convinced him to stop torturing me.

I didn't feel as though I had a single muscle or bone in my body after that. He pulled up the covers and embraced me, but it was several minutes before I could return the embrace. "Are you quite all right?" If he had sounded any more smug or solicitous, I might have had to push him out of bed. As it was, I couldn't have moved enough to thump him.

"'m fine."

"Good." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Will you recover?"

"Yes."

He grinned at me. "Good."

"I'm going to -- to --" I shook my head very slightly.

"Take your revenge?" he suggested and kissed me. 

I shifted in his arms and realized how impatient he must have been. We kissed until I ran out of breath and had to end it. "I -- yes. I'll try to take my revenge."

"All right." He took one of the pillows from the head of the bed and tucked it under his hips as he turned onto his back. "You don't have to, you know."

"Your first rule, Aimery?"

"Yes?"

"Don't remind me that I'm here of my own free will. I know."

"Very well, I won't." 

That called for another extended kiss. I started feeling as though I was avoiding the matter at hand. "Well --" I wrestled the blankets into something approximating the right position and, after a little bit of contortionism, settled myself between his legs somewhat comfortably.

"Well?" I shrugged and reached for one of his hands. He smiled and squeezed my fingers. "Relax, _chéri._ "

"With that display to live up to?"

"Bah." He stroked my hair lightly. "That wasn't much of anything."

"You don't think so?"

"Compared to -- no."

I shook my head. "If I could do half so well --"

"You'd have to have had half as much practice, at least."

"Is that a gentle hint?" I made myself smile at him.

"A very gentle one."

"All right." I nuzzled his hip and made him laugh. "I can do this."

"If you want to."

"I want to. And I can. I can do this." I took a deep breath, and then another while I tried to remember how he'd begun.

"You can," he said softly, and he was going to say something else, but I managed to surprise him by beginning. 

It was much more difficult than he'd made it look. I had trouble remembering the right way to do anything, remembering to be careful of my teeth, remembering to breathe, and remembering that there was a lot of things I didn't know and couldn't describe. After the first few minutes, my jaw started to ache, and I stopped. "How on earth did you manage to go on so long?" I asked.

He sighed. "God, Daniel, if you knew how you look --" His tone surprised me. I glanced at his face; his expression was tender and desperate at the same time. "You should probably stop."

"If you're sure."

"That's another lesson."

"Ah." I lay beside him and arranged the covers over us again before I kissed him and started caressing him. "You know, Aimé --"

" -- what?"

"This is going to take a lot of practice."

He laughed, though his breath caught in the middle and it turned into a moan. "Will it?"

"Diligent effort, regular rehearsals -- and a lot of expert advice."

He tangled his fingers in my hair. "Kiss me."

I obliged him gladly. He arched into my hand and cried out, then relaxed and kissed my cheek. I said, "I'm sorry."

"Stop that." He poked me again.

"Yes, but I should have done better than that."

"Did I look like I wasn't having fun?"

"No."

"Did I, in fact, look as though you hurt me?"

I sighed. "No, but --"

"You'll be better next time. And the time after that. And the time after that."

"I'm not so sure. I don't think I learned anything. I just wasted your time."

"Inattention!"

I blinked. "What?"

"If you'd been paying attention, you'd have noticed how much I enjoyed that whole thing." He freed a hand from the blankets to touch my lips. "Listening to you gasping and searching for words -- seeing you like that --"

"Really, Aimery, I don't know how much I'm going to remember."

"Then I'll just have to show you again," complacently, "until you get it right."

I shook my head. "I wanted to get it right this time."

He frowned. "You did."

"I didn't. I didn't do almost anything I wouldn't have done last month."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's dull."

"Daniel, I was anything but bored, and you are far from dull."

I sighed. "But I should have done better."

"Absolutely not. You'd have killed me."

"Aimery --" I laughed against my better judgement. "You exaggerate."

"Not as much as you might think. Kiss me again, _mon frère._ "

"You know," I said a while later, after we had rebuilt the fire, cleaned up a bit, and found warmer clothes to sleep in, "I believe I'm exhausted."

"I'm not at all surprised."

"Are you not exhausted, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"All right." I embraced him. "I think I'm madly in love with you."

"Are you," he said, in tones of idle curiosity.

"It certainly seems that way."

"I love you, too." He yawned.

I bit my tongue. He was falling asleep faster than I was. It wasn't the right time to explain that that was not exactly what I meant; that I meant it more in the way I had meant it when I said it to Rosalie: the sort of love that implies a degree of possession, of fidelity, of mutual responsibility. It was masochistic idiocy to feel that way about Aimé, but I could not have borne to hear him tell me so at that hour of the night. 


	34. Reflection (Prouvaire): December, 1829

"You couldn't be prettier if you were a girl," Christophe said to me, and though he was laughing the phrase stayed in my mind.

"And why not?" I asked him, thoroughly out of context, perhaps an hour later.

He blinked at me. "Why not what?"

"Why couldn't I be prettier if I was a girl?"

He grinned. "Well, I suppose you could, if you tried."

I kissed his cheek. "It might be interesting."

"You would be devastating." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Jeannette, belle of the Latin Quarter."

"Ah, well. It's an intriguing thought."

"We could manage most of it, if you wanted."

I frowned. "Most of --"

Christophe shrugged. "A dress for my pretty mistress, seamstress, and such-and-so are her measurements. Powder for her fair cheek, and paint for her lips."

"Christophe." I could feel myself blushing.

"You would be splendid."

I hesitated. "Would you like it?"

"Very much, _petite_." His voice had gone softer. "And think of Aimery's face."

I laughed. "You're terrible."

"I know," he said complacently, and kissed me.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Hmm?"

"It will take a while to have everything made, won't it?"

He grinned. "Ah. Yes. Tomorrow."

We chose a lavender fabric for the dress, chattering loudly about Christophe's mistress and her tastes. He had it in mind to use the latest fashions, and would often declaim, "Nothing Imperial for my beloved." This led us away from the more relaxed, gentle outfits and into the realm of flounced skirts and fichus. The petticoats gave me pause, for I had no clear idea of how many were necessary, and the stays were frankly terrifying. Christophe had apparently assisted enough of his mistresses in the process to have some idea of what to ask for and what measurements were important in what area. It was all a gift for his betrothed, we had decided, and we laughed in private at the expressions of the shop attendants at his forward questions about which particular design was easiest for the wearer to put on or remove alone.

We argued about the aesthetics once, but he solved the matter by pointing out two ladies on our way home, one in the height of fashion and looking terribly warm, whose hips and breasts were quite obscured, and one in an older gown, who was delightful to the eye because all of her charms were her own, helped only by the subtlest of stays. When we arrived, he had me put on one of his nightgowns and poked at me. "You have no breasts, _cher_ , no hips, and nowhere to put either."

"Even if I'm wearing a corset I won't have any breasts," I said, still uncomfortable at the thought of all those layers, let alone the expense.

"Ah, but you'll have a place to put the handkerchief."

I took off the nightgown and threw it at him. He caught it, laughing, and tugged me onto the bed, where he kissed me until I admitted that he was right.

He was enamored of a particular hat in a milliner's shop. I thought it was hideously gaudy and would not go at all well with the outfit. He sulked until I offered to make it a present from me, rather than from him, and then he gave in and let me choose a simpler bonnet, tied with a puffy purple ribbon that I felt suited perfectly well.

As we acquired each piece, we tested them for comfort under great duress, until I was certain that I could bear the costume. At last all of the paints and frills were completed and paid for, and I sent a note to Aimery asking him to meet me at home at ten-o'clock. Christophe lingered after we dined together, helping me into the corset, the carefully placed padding at the bosom, the slip, and the dress. He tugged at them as fussily as any lady-in-waiting, and we grinned at each other. And last, with a delicate hand, he painted my lips. We had only experimented with the cosmetics the night before, and that had been without the dress, without the ringlets the heated iron sealed into my hair, and without the delicate slippers, only finished that evening.

"You're beautiful," he told me, and kissed my cheek. "I wish I could stay."

"You can."

He grinned. "Tomorrow, perhaps. I couldn't keep from laughing tonight."

I frowned at him. "Why not?"

"You're simply lovely, that's all."

"Am I?"

"Yes." He glanced at his watch. "And I've a meeting to attend in ten minutes. Good night, _petite_. Tell me everything?"

I kissed him at length. "Of course."

Christophe grinned at me. "Good luck." He put on his hat and left, whistling as he went down the stairs.

It was not yet nine; Aimery was not due for another hour, if he were punctual, which is not one of his better traits. I had my wide skirts to contend with, but I could still use my chair. I sat and read quite peacefully until a curl fell into my eyes and utterly refused to be tucked behind my ear and stay there.

I set the book on my desk and got up to look in my mirror. Because Christophe had done my make-up for me, I had not seen the full regalia completed until I paused, blinking at Jeannette's face framed in my mirror. I caught my breath at the sight of her, and her soft lips parted in a gasp. I blinked, and her blue eyes widened a little. She was the very picture of a beautiful young lady. Whatever Christophe had done with the powders, the paints, the neckline, had created a lovely girl whom I felt I had never met before, and who so bewitched my senses that I could not recognize myself in her.

The mere sight of her -- as she bent her head, her long, fair neck; the hint of her tongue touching her bottom lip nervously; her pale fingers as she pushed her hair away from her eyes; her steady, flirtatious gaze -- all these things made my pulse race and brought more color to her cheeks, as if she were aware of my state and pleased to produce such an effect in me in such a short time. I grinned at her and she smiled back, a little shyly. I murmured, "Coquette," to her softly, and we laughed together at the endearment.

I knew Aimery was coming, but a glance at my pocketwatch, discarded in a heap of clothes, showed me that he would not arrive for another forty-five minutes at the earliest. Jeannette glanced at me under her lashes, encouraging me, and I slid my hand under the layers of her skirts, seeking release. We had not invested in the lower halves of undergarments, as they seemed thoroughly unnecessary under the circumstances. And yet as my hand skimmed my bare thigh and Jeannette's eyes closed, I realized it would be far better to finish my preparations before Aimery arrived, before he was surprised and -- with any luck -- as enamored of Jeannette as I was.

I nodded to her in farewell, and she glanced at me longingly over her shoulder as we parted, however briefly. When I had found the oil in the corner where Christophe put it, I glanced at her again. She blushed at me, and then smiled a little, bravely, as I knelt on the bed, I tugged the skirts up, out of the way, so as not to get anything on them. I had rescued several handkerchiefs from Christophe's overenthusiastic attempt at bosoms, and I kept them to hand should there be any mishaps. I wet my fingers with oil and then, half-avoiding Jeanette's embarrassed glances, pressed them inside myself, imagining Christophe's teasing hands. A little more oil, more gentle strokes, and I could meet Jeannette's eyes again. They were brighter than they had been before, though half-lidded with pleasure, and a fond smile played about her lips.

Her history showed in her knowing glances at me. Surely she was no virgin -- and it came to me as I eased my knees farther apart and added a third finger how ludicrous it was to think she might have been. Christophe's mistress, whom he had bought trinkets for nearly every day for a month, a virgin? It was utterly implausible. I peered at her to ascertain the truth and saw her looking defensive, as if it were anything to hide from me. I smiled at her to reassure her and heard her soft gasp, felt the slick glide of my fingers within her. Hardly a virgin, this one, who brazenly met my eyes as she caressed herself, making herself fully ready to greet her lover's friend with every intimacy she had ever mastered and abandon herself to joy. She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing brighter, and I could not bear the sight any longer. I caught up the handkerchiefs and caressed myself, pressing my fingers deeper, tugging and stroking in a practiced rhythm until I lost sight of Jeannette and came to the sound of her whimpers.

When I opened my eyes, I could only see myself in the mirror with elaborate curls in my hair and careful paint on my lips. I was disoriented for a moment, wondering where she had gone, until I tugged my fingers out of myself and felt the twist of my hips. Then I knew she was in me, where she had always truly been. I wiped myself off and stood, brushing the skirts down and wriggling my toes in the unfamiliar slippers. I could feel her in my posture, and when I crossed the room, in the sway of my hips, which I had never been conscious of before I met her.

I removed the evidence of my rendezvous, set the things I assumed I would need later in an accessible place, and sat down again to wait for Aimery, chuckling at myself and at Jeannette from time to time. She waited with every semblance of calm, trying to read but distracted by thoughts of the handsome boy who would visit her soon and the marvelous pleasure that awaited her at his hands. I smoothed my skirts, sure that Aimery would get on splendidly with such an eager and charming girl.


	35. Chimera (Courfeyrac): December, 1829

The first time I laid eyes on Jeannette, that chimera girl, I wanted to take her by force, by storm, just push her against the nearest wall and pin her there. Wanted her with a fervor that was barely distinguishable from fury. Wanted to hear us both scream.

I had to remind myself, fiercely, of the truth: that it was Jehan in the so-modest skirts, that the coquettish curls and seductive eyes and slim, fragile waist were only his. Jehan, whom I loved, who was real, no matter how much it felt like a dizzy dream where no rules applied.

But he stepped closer, slipping both arms around my waist, and reality burned away. I could feel his body, tense and eager under the stays and the petticoats; and yet Jeannette was soft and pliant in my arms, her delicate face turned upward. I caught her by the shoulders and kissed her, heard a soft whimper as she melted against me.

"Aimé--"

"You're beautiful." I tugged at the bodice of her gown, baring a white shoulder. "Beautiful. My God, you look as though I could break you in two."

Laughter, shaky but triumphant. "I'm not so frail as that." 

"Good." 

We fell against the wall, entwined. I kissed her again, savagely, tasting blood. Jeannette arched and gasped against me, but it was Jehan's hand that slid inside my trousers, teasing me. For a long moment I could not see, could scarcely breathe. " _Chéri_ ," I heard, huskily beside my ear. "You're blushing."

"Oh, shameless--" 

She laughed, a high girlish giggle, and drew me down for another kiss. I braced one hand on the wall, fumbling with the cumbersome skirts, while she unfastened buttons with practiced dexterity. A shiver of ecstasy -- mine, or his? -- went through me as my hand met skin. There was no mistaking Jehan's ardor, or the warm scent of him under the perfume. I caressed him roughly, made him whimper again, buried my face in soft dark curls coming loose from their pins. He pulled me against him with sudden force, then, and sent me past words, past thought, past anything but clinging to him, drowning in sweetness.

Then quiet.

He was breathing hard, within the restraints of Jeannette's rumpled finery. I kissed the curve of his neck, tasting sweat. "I'm sorry," I murmured, and heard Jehan's familiar, mischievous chuckle in my ear.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I've made a mess of you, lovely." I tangled my fingers in his hair. "In my reckless haste."

"It's all right."

I straightened up, a little gingerly, and grinned at him. " _There_ speaks my friend Jehan. Any true Jeannette would be far more worried about her clothes than about her reputation." 

"Wretch!" Laughing, he caught hold of my shoulders and knocked me off balance again. I stumbled back and fell onto the bed, pulling him after me. "Is that any way to speak to a lady?"

"No. Not at all." I looked up at him, still dazed with delight; beautiful boy, beautiful girl, it hardly seemed to matter which. "Allow me to make my apologies." 

His smile was breathtaking. "I suppose I could do that."

This time I did not hurry.


	36. Impatience (Bahorel): April, 1830

It took a long time to walk home from the Café Musain last night, for all we had been there until three in the morning. Every few steps, Jehan tugged on my sleeve like a fretful child until I stopped in a shadowed street, whereupon he embraced me as though he had not seen me in a year and kissed me with all the subtlety of rhythm and meter that he could bring to bear on the moment. At first, he did it to tease me, but as we kept on -- and kept on stopping -- he was more affected than I was.

He protested a little when I made a sharp left turn into an alleyway, but he followed me just the same. I kissed him until he stopped complaining and clung to me, trembling. When I unfastened his pants, he looked almost as though he was going to swoon, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light. I let him go and he leaned on the wall of a house. I whispered his name softly as I knelt in front of him.

That seemed to wake him from his daze. He said, "Christophe, we can't do anything here!" softly and furiously.

"Everyone's asleep. They won't know." I kissed the tip of his cock gently, and he sighed. "And you won't like walking the rest of the way if I leave you alone."

"We shouldn't."

"Mm-hm." But he let me once I had begun and tangled his long, pale fingers in my hair to keep me from teasing him. When he came, he made a soft noise, almost a whimper.

"You're terrible," he told me affectionately when I stood to help him button his pants.

"I know, _chéri._ But you don't seem to mind."

"Not very much, no." He walked the rest of the way with his arm around my waist, leaning on my shoulder a little.


	37. Revolting (Combeferre): July, 1830

When the order came from the king and the presses closed, the air was full of the words that could not be printed, rumbling with the freedom that some had come to take for granted. Everyone was discussing what should be done, not only those men who had been less than comfortable with a king, like us, but everyone who had suddenly awakened to find that the power of an absolute monarch is a hideous burden on any country, far too heavy and painful for La Belle France.

We had only a few hours of sleep that first night. My brothers and I were all through the city, talking to this group and that, planning what would happen. Birds were singing by the time I got home, and Julien arrived after I had fallen asleep. The dawn came early, though we didn't see it. I woke in the middle of the morning, and I was afraid. I lay quietly beside Julien, not wanting to rob him of any sleep he could have that night, and I prayed.

I could not have found the gall to address my thoughts to the God of my youth, not when I held my lover in my arms and felt the heat of his skin against mine. I could not pray to any God who would require me to repent of loving whom I loved and letting them know it. If I was damned for caring about my friends and taking joy in them -- then I was damned, for I would not cease loving them when we faced danger. But I felt the need to ask someone greater than myself for assistance; I was not the savior of Paris, nor of anyone else, and I could only hope to help the people I knew in tiny ways.

Julien stirred in my embrace and I kissed him softly. He looked at me as if he did not know me for a moment, then returned the kiss. "It's late," he said.

"Not too late. I haven't heard anything."

"We should go."

I sighed and sat up. "Yes. I love you."

He was already out of bed, dressing as quickly as he could. "And I love you. Now, where did I put them?"

It was madness in the streets in the horrid heat of July. The comfortably affluent wanted the soldier to know that they were welcome, and that His Majesty would never be overthrown. All the gold louis in Paris were his for the asking. But wealth or no, the people were angry. Their presses were gone -- shut down by order of the King, and by order of his damnable ministers. Later, Bossuet told me that in the house where he lodged, the affluent tenants on the ground floor had opened their doors to the soldiers and offered them wine and bread, while the students, the grisettes, and the workingmen who populated the rickety flats above threw insults, rotten food, and the contents of chamberpots onto the soldiers' heads.

Julien was in his element in the streets, more rapturous at the head of a throng chanting to a cadence than I had ever seen him in all the years we had been together. It was all suddenly real as it had never been in the years I had heard him speak of his ideals. He had spoken of using force to realize a true government, a republic. He had spoken of rallying the people to claim their natural rights, of tossing aside the current government as a boy puts away his toy soldiers, and moving on to better things. It was not until I saw him leading men, instituting anarchy to clear away monarchy, that I understood he had always spoken the truth.

I had been lying to myself, as I have been lying since I met him. I had thought he was not truly a warrior, that no one as gentle in love as he could ever kill another man, nor incite his fellows to sin against God and nature by slaying their brothers. My falsehoods were a great deal more beautiful than the truth, than the man who can kill without sorrow and lose friends without flinching. I did not follow him too closely that day; I could not. He walked as Apollo with an arrow of flame nocked on his bow. I knew that if I saw him kill, I would never be able to believe in the myth of my sweet beloved again, no matter how much I would prefer it to remembering this militant, splendid man.

There was no reason that I should have walked beside him. I was not armed; I carried no gun, no sword. I had only the bag that I used when I worked in the hospital, and another -- a pillowcase from the bed Julien and I shared -- stuffed full of bandages, makeshift and otherwise. No matter that I had not finished my training; I could stanch the flow of blood as well as any man, given the proper materials. All through that horrible, wonderful day, I feared that Julien would fall, and that I would not see him to be able to help, but that fear was not enough to make me walk close to him.

I fell further back into his entourage, the mob he led. Aimery, Jehan, Daniel, Bossuet, and Chrétien walked with me, and I stayed with them, although it hurt my heart to see Jehan -- barely a man -- armed with a carbine. They needed me then as they had never had before. They joked with each other. I could not join in their merriment. Any words stuck in my throat with the certainty that I was responsible for their presence in this impossibly dangerous attempt war. I could hardly smile at them, though Aimery tried time and again to break my silence. The only time I spoke was when someone near us was hurt and needed my poor skills -- most often strangers, for my friends did not stay together. Jehan, Bossuet, and Chrétien disappeared in the crowds, off with other acquaintances. All morning, all afternoon, I had no idea what was happening in Paris. I was only aware of the men around me, needing help, firing guns, bleeding, and Julien somewhere impossibly distant, though I never got so far from him that I could not see him.

And yet I could not move when Daniel was shot. I saw it too clearly, and in that moment I knew that everything I had done to bring these men together was wrong. I should have left them alone, so that they would have been friends and no more; it would have been painful enough to see a friend injured, but it was horrible to see my brother bleeding. I stared at him for an endless moment until Aimery shook my shoulder and said, "Audric!" His voice was hoarse with fear. Whatever sympathetic pain I felt, Aimery must have felt twice over. I glanced at him and saw how worried he was. That woke me from my daze, for if it had been any normal day, any normal problem, he would never have let himself look frightened.

Daniel had been shot in the left shoulder. He sat in the street behind the small barricade we'd built, holding his injured arm with the good one. I knelt beside him and carefully cut away his jacket and his shirt. When I had done that, it became easier, more routine. He was a patient, not a friend, not a brother. Aimery knelt beside me, saying something -- to me or to Daniel, but I wasn't listening. Daniel's shoulder had only been grazed, and he was not nearly as seriously wounded as I had feared. I said, "It'll be all right. Just -- I'll have to sew it, and you should go home. And -- Aimé, you should go with him." 

Daniel would probably have been all right, once I'd put in the sutures and bandaged it. He most likely didn't need help changing the bandage. I explained how he might do it himself when I put the first one on. He could have asked someone, anyone, for assistance with the hard parts. But I had to send them away, though it was not strictly necessary. I had to do what I could to keep them both safe. If I could have convinced anyone else that they would have to leave the streets, Jehan, Chrétien, I would have told them lies as blithely as I gave Aimery my half-truth.

He took it and a length of cloth and lint with gravity I've rarely seen in him. He pressed my shoulder for a moment, then gave Daniel a hand up. "Let's get you home, _mon frère,_ " he said, and he sounded old and tired. Daniel gave me a brave smile and bid me farewell. They were gone in the crowd a moment later, leaving me to explain to the rest what had happened.

I did not see either of them again until two evenings later, when everything that was going to change for the better had changed. The king was deposed, long live the king. We had won against Charles X and lost to Louis-Philippe. Was it any wonder that we gathered, bleary-eyed and tired, in a café and drank together?

Julien did not approve, but I was past caring what he thought. He had been unlike himself for days on end; I had no desire to placate his sensitive sensibilities. He left early. In my memory he was pale as a skull that night, and I should have followed him, as perhaps Aimery should have followed Daniel. Daniel was healing well and did not need anyone with him, but it would not have hurt him to have company. And Chrétien was no sicker that day than any other, and so he left alone, leaving Bossuet laughing on Jehan's shoulder.

We should all have gone home, away from the madness that was the so-called revolution. Christophe should never have invited us with him; I should never have accepted. If I had gone with Julien, I would have had little patience for him, and perhaps it would have ended there, in the hazy, painful night. But my friends restored my patience and my faith in Julien. I lost myself and my agony in their arms, my beloved brothers, and I remembered four years of loving Julien, not three days of fearing him.


	38. Shock (Courfeyrac): July, 1830

It's times like these that could teach a man to hate. I don't believe I've ever truly hated anyone or anything, until now. Curious how it clarifies things. Every wish and every desire has gone from me but one: to find whoever put a bullet in my Daniel, and repay him tenfold.

Fortunately, by the time I was aware of this, we were well on our way home. Daniel is walking more or less steadily, but his face is dead white and he doesn't seem at all sure which way he's supposed to be going. I keep my arm around his waist; his good arm is around my shoulders. It's slow enough progress we make, but we get there eventually.

Daniel looks at the door in confusion. "Should go home."

"We are home," I say, out of breath. "Mine. Not taking you back to that pesthole you call a room."

"Not that bad," he objects.

"Yes, but the rats won't change that bandage for you. Come on."

Somehow we get up the stairs. Daniel leans on my shoulder, catching his breath, while I get the door unlocked. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Sorry. The man gets himself shot before my eyes, and he's sorry. "For what?"

"Inconveniencing..."

"Shut up, brother, do."

Daniel shuts up, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed with his eyes closed, while I get rid of what's left of his shirt. "Lie down," I suggest, and he does that too, wincing. "Good man."

He looks so thin, lying there half-naked. So fragile, so breakable. Damn them.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

"To be sure." I lean over to kiss his forehead. "Someone has to keep an eye on you. Can't have you running off, getting into trouble."

Daniel smiles faintly, his eyes still closed. "Mm."

I pull the sheet up over him, carefully. "All right now?"

But he's already asleep.


	39. Manipulation (Bahorel): July, 1830

There was a faraway look in Aimery's eyes, thoroughly incongruous considering the level of apparent concentration he devoted to debauchery. Perhaps it wasn't as obvious to the others as it was to me. Bossuet certainly couldn't be expected to know that his heartfelt praise meant little, and when he said, " _Chéri_ ," and threw his head back, he didn't see the moment of pain in Aimery's eyes.

Jehan ought to have known better, but he was distracted, clinging to his Eagle, kissing Audric with a passion I'd never known he felt for the fellow. I had expected Audric to be saner than he was that night; but he can't always have such desires, or living with Julien would kill him from sheer frustration.

I was trying to be a passable host, though they needed little encouragement to entertain one another. At the beginning, I wanted nothing more than pleasure and absolution, a little abandonment, in the way that the city had been mad in her search for freedom. Once I had caught my breath, it was not enough. I saw the distraction in Aimery's eyes, but every time I would have reached out to him, one of them kissed me, and I could hardly push them away.

It was not terribly long before we were all rather tired. Jehan, Bossuet, and Audric had borrowed one of my mattresses and curled up on it. Aimery lay on his side beside me, half asleep with his head on my shoulder. I kissed his cheek and he opened his eyes, smiling at me, though he seemed a little distracted still. "Are you all right?" I asked, keeping my voice rather soft so as not to wake the others.

"Of course, Chris."

If I hadn't known him as well as I did, I would have ignored the faint wistfulness in his tone. "You're worried about Daniel."

He buried his face in my shoulder. "Of course I am."

"He'll be all right for the night."

"I hope so."

I pressed a kiss to his tousled curls. "He will be. And if you don't get any sleep, then you won't be able to take care of him tomorrow."

Aimery sighed. "I don't know how I can sleep."

I ran my hand down his back. "Aren't you exhausted?"

"Chris," he objected, laughing. "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

He gave me a long look. "No, I'm not completely exhausted. Just mostly."

I grinned at him. "It might be easier to sleep if you were completely exhausted."

"I'm not sure I can move."

"All right." I kissed his forehead and sat up, rubbing his thigh. "You won't have to move much."

He stretched. "No? Just as well."

"Lie on your stomach, _cher_?"

He crossed his arms under his chin and rolled onto his stomach. "There. Better?"

I kissed his shoulder, then edged over to light the tallow candle on the table beside the bed. "Yes."

He turned to look at me, grinning. "What, chéri? Haven't you seen enough today?"

I thought of the beauty of Jehan's face, transfigured by pleasure; of the surprising gentleness of Bossuet's deft hands; of Audric in the throes of desire I would never have attributed to the man, which rendered him almost handsome. And Aimery, who lay before me, languorous before I had even begun thanks to our friends' kind attentions. "Not yet."

He smiled at me and laughed again, softly. "I know you think I'm handsome, love, but they're trying to sleep. "

"I know," I said, stroking his thigh. "I only want it lit for a little while."

"Hmm?"

"I only want the candle. Not the light." 

Aimery blinked at me. "Oh."

He sighed as I slid a finger into him, slick with oil. I kissed his neck lightly, marveling at his calm; he was rarely so placid in my bed, but then, he rarely attended such bacchanalias. When I added another finger, he bit his lip and said, "Pause a moment." 

Of all things, I could not deny him that. I let him go, easing my fingers out of him, and treasuring the small gasp their departure provoked. He sat up, pulling his knees under him, and embraced me heartily. "You're a damnable tease, Chris, you know that?"

I smiled at him. "I've no intention of changing my ways."

"I know. That may be the worst part of it."

"But it doesn't stop you from giving in to me."

"No," he admitted. "At least, not when I think you're asking something that could be fun. Or interesting. Or both."

I kissed him lightly. "I always hope for both. Lie down?"

He settled on his knees, resting his cheek on the pillow again. "You look diabolical tonight."

I wet my fingers with the oil and ran them down his back. "Do I?"

"Oh --"

"Perhaps it's the candlelight," I suggested, and with my free hand I retrieved it and blew it out.

He turned, trying to get a good look at me. "You're still grinning."

"I'm still happy." I pulled my hand away.

"Diabolical," he said again.

I poked at the softened candle, rubbing the thick fat over my fingers and thumb, down over the knuckles, onto the palm and the back of my hand.

Aimery turned to watch me. "What are you doing?"

I tried to make my smile a little more innocent for his benefit. "Making love to you."

He raised his eyebrows. In the half-light, I could read no distraction in his expression, nothing but a certain amount of surprise and hopeful anticipation. "Oh."

"If you'll allow it."

He grinned at me. "I'll try anything once."

"Hopefully more than once," I said, and began to stroke him again. He pressed against my fingers eagerly now that he knew it was no simple preamble, but I would not rush him. Although I knew full well that he was quite as relaxed as I had ever seen him, and I could feel the eagerness in the tension of his body, I didn't dare to push him. "A little at a time," I counseled him, even as he whimpered and pressed against me, rocking his hips, fucking himself on three of my fingers pressed tight together.

"You'll drive me mad," he told me breathlessly, hardly for the first time, and I let him go then. He wailed and reached for me, heedless of our sleeping friends.

"Just a moment," I told him, reaching for the candle again. Although my hands were slick, I managed to light it and tug at the warming material. "I wouldn't hurt you for the world." With my somewhat less slippery hand, I stroked his back, trying to calm his desperate breathing. "On your elbows, perhaps, _cher_ , and don't be quite so eager."

He snorted. "That's easy for you to say."

"I know, Aimé. I know. Just let me. Trust me."

Some measure of tension left his back, though he was still braced somewhat awkwardly. "All right."

He caught his breath as I crooked a finger inside him. At the second, he gasped and stilled his hips by force of will. With three of my fingers deep inside him, his hips twisted and he buried his face in the pillow to stifle a groan. I waited, stroking him and adding more of the melting candle, until I felt him relax a little more. I slid my fourth finger into him. He swore magnificently and began begging me to fuck him.

"Now?" I asked, running my thumb over the curve of his ass.

"Yes. Please. Now. I want you so badly, Chris." I began to pull my hand away, but he cried out and reached back to press my wrist. "No. Don't stop."

I chuckled. "I misunderstood. All right." As I wriggled my fingers gently, he shuddered.

"Please, Chris."

"Insatiable," I chided him, trying to focus on fulfilling his request. He was devastatingly beautiful on his knees with his thighs spread wide, begging me to push him farther, to take him, to possess and treasure his fine, pale body. He was as splendid a Ganymede as any doting god could wish for, and I counted myself greatly lucky that I had him pleading with me to take advantage of his sweetness. I would have prolonged the game if I could have stood to listen to his hoarse whispers a moment longer. As it was, I tugged a shirt down from the head of the bed and tucked it beneath him while he whimpered. With a final dab of tallow on the least slippery angle of my thumb, I pressed it into him, caressing him with my free hand. 

He cried out into the pillow, mumbling meaningless phrases, cursing my name, swearing that he adored me. He was shaking violently, pressing his cock into my hand and rocking against the hand buried inside him with unconscious, desperate thrusts. I stroked him hard, gauging every murmur, every little yelp, and encouraged him with slight movements within him. He bit his lip fiercely, choking back a cry that must otherwise have woken our companions, and came with a low wail, shuddering and pressing against my hand. I kept pace with his first sharp thrusts, then, as his rhythm faltered, I sped up my hand. He cried out again, louder this time with surprise and joy, then fell silent and limp. He gasped for breath, resting his weight on his knees.

It was perhaps a minute before he spoke. "Jesus, Christophe." I tugged my thumb out of him and he bit his lip. "That was --"

"Fun and interesting?" I asked, chuckling.

"At the very least. God." He shifted slightly, and I took that as the cue to pull my hand away, slowly. Aimery whimpered. "God."

"Are you all right?" By the single, dimming candle, I could not see any signs that I'd hurt him, but --

"I'm not in pain," he assured me, and I relaxed.

"Ah, good." I wiped my hand on the already terribly sticky shirt. "Are you sure?"

He sat up, wincing a little. "I'll remember this every time I sit down for a week, but nothing really hurts."

I kissed his cheek. "Good."

He put an arm around my shoulders. "God, Chris."

I grinned at him. "So you liked it, then?"

He laughed and punched me in the shoulder. "Yes." He glanced down and wrinkled his nose. "Rather a lot. May I --?"

"Of course," I said with a wave of my hand. He borrowed the shirt to remove lingering stickiness, then dropped it on the floor with a disdainful expression. "Are you tired now?" I asked, smiling at him.

He yawned at me. "Yes." He drew me into his arms and tugged the sheet over us. "Very."

"Good night, then, Aimé."

"Good night, _mon frère._ Sleep well."

I kissed his cheek and put an arm around him, listening to the soft sound of his breathing as he fell asleep nearly immediately.


	40. Paternalism: August, 1830

In the middle of August 1830, an eighty-year-old lady named Isabelle de Courfeyrac has the bad grace to die in Normandy. This obligates her family to attend the reading of the will in that far-flung part of France, including the parts of the family who inhabit the southernmost regions of the country -- at least, it obligates them if they are of jealous and suspicious minds. Aimery Courfeyrac's parents are among the clan members making this pilgrimage of distrust from their homes. On the way back, they plan to stop in Paris and visit their son, but because he had already been informed that they would be by sometime in the month, they do not see fit to inform him of their precise day of arrival. 

Between the lady's death and the Courfeyracs' return to Paris, there is a revolution in the capital, and all thoughts of his parents quite leave Aimery's head, such that when there is a knock on his door in the first week of August, he does not immediately remember who that might be. Suspecting that it is Audric coming by to check on Daniel's shoulder while the latter lies sleeping fitfully, he says, "Yes?"

"Aimery, darling?" calls a woman's voice. "Why is your door locked?"

He stares a moment. "Oh, God," in an undertone. Then he shuts the inner door gently, and goes to unlock the outer one with a resolute smile. "Sorry."

His parents are on the threshold, his father all in black with a stormy expression, and his mother looking rather excited to see him. "Well," says his father, "you're looking terrible."

"Thank you," Aimery says lightly, and stands aside to let them in. "I stayed up all night expressly so that I could welcome you looking properly funereal."

Justine embraces him. "Now don't fight," she says anxiously.

Gilbert shakes his head. "Did you stay up all night? Whatever for?"

"Who's fighting?" Aimery lets his mother go, consciously patient. "No, actually, I didn't. I'm being flippant and impertinent. Will you sit down?"

Gilbert sits in his son's desk chair. "Thank you. And what have you been doing in this horrible month?"

Justine settles noiselessly into a seat. Aimery shrugs lightly, clasping his hands behind him with feet apart in the time-honored stance of errant schoolboys everywhere. "Nothing worth mentioning."

Gilbert studies him a moment, then shakes his head. "How odd, for you. I would have thought you had been doing something interesting, what with all the uproar around here."

Aimery grins. "Whatever do you mean?"

The bedroom door opens, and Daniel emerges, wearing only a pair of pants and a bandage on his left shoulder. He pauses in the doorway, blinks with highly dilated pupils, and backs up. If his face were not already pale as a ghost, he would doubtless have paled when he half-realized his mistake. 

He slams the door just as Gilbert jumps to his feet and yells, "What in the hell are you doing?" at him, or at Aimery.

Justine's hands fly to her mouth. Behind them, she gives a faint squeak, her eyes wide.

Aimery swears, moving a heartbeat too late to intercept Daniel. "Keep your voice down," he says furiously to his father, "for God's sake, that's a sick man."

"I can damned well see that!" Gilbert says, his face red in fury. "Are you running a hospital? What is he doing here?"

"Recovering," Aimery retorts. He is slightly flushed himself. "He's a friend, Papa, he's in no condition to be moved, and he's been sleeping badly enough /without/ people shouting at him, so would you kindly calm down?"

"I am not sending you money so that you can lend your room to sick friends. He can damned well go home, or hasn't he one?" Gilbert asks sharply, albeit a bit more quietly. "If he can stand up, he can get home."

"It's costing you nothing," Aimery says in a tone of dangerous calm. "The inconvenience is entirely mine, I don't need any particular assistance, which is why you'll note I haven't _asked, monsieur._ "

"Gilbert, your language," Justine pleads, wringing her hands. "Aimery, dear--"

"Why in the hell have you started running an infirmary? Doesn't the boy have anywhere else to go?" Gilbert ignores Justine utterly.

"No," Aimery says recklessly, "he doesn't. Damned if I'm going to throw him out. And I apologize for his bad manners, Maman, but he's drugged out of his mind at the moment-- which is another reason he's not going anywhere."

"By God, Aimery, what madness is this?" Gilbert asks, and despite earlier admonitions, he is yelling again.

Justine hides her face in her hands.

Aimery shrugs, deliberately insouciant, though he cannot repress a worried look at the door. "A youthful whim. Will you kindly keep it down?"

"So you've a sick friend," Gilbert continues much more quietly, though it is not a calm quiet. "And this sickness -- the boy is abusing drugs, is he, what a charming habit."

"Oh, for God's sake, Papa."

"Then what does he do? Why in God's name is he living with you?"

"Because someone has to look after him until he's fit to fend for himself." Aimery folds his arms, and there is a certain manic sparkle in his eyes. "Why do you care so much? Haven't I been sufficiently outrageous all by myself, that you have to start in on my friends? I'll have to try harder."

Gilbert shakes his head. "God alone knows what you've done to be outrageous recently. I would rather not ask."

Suddenly Aimery laughs. "I'm sure you wouldn't. Oh, come, now, look, we've made Maman despair of us again. It's too early to be furious with me, surely?" He holds out his arms, with the winning look of a small boy who hopes for a hug in spite of muddy clothes and multiple misdemeanors. Exactly that look, in fact.

Gilbert attempts to glower at him, but like so many other people who have attempted to glower at Aimery, he fails miserably. "I'm not furious with you," he says, sighing. "Tell me about this boy --" with a wave at the bedroom door. Justine peeks out from behind her fingers, and lets her hands fall to her lap in some relief.

"Daniel?" Aimery says innocently, as though they might have been talking about some other boy. "Nothing much to tell. I thought I'd written you about him."

Gilbert shrugs. "I don't know." He looks at Justine. "Do you recall?"

Justine knots her fingers together in her lap. "I-- I'm not very good with names."

Aimery shrugs in turn, leaning back against the desk. "He takes his education much more seriously than I do," solemnly.

Gilbert snorts. "That doesn't take much effort. What else?"

"Oh, now!" protests Aimery in mock injury.

"Aimery," his father says, remarkably patiently in contrast with his earlier tone, "go on."

Wide grey eyes. "I don't know what you want to know."

Gilbert looks less amused than Aimery might hope. "The important things."

"Such as?"

"Why is this studious fellow drugged and living with you? Where is he from? What is his family like? What is he studying?" Gilbert waves a hand. "Don't be dense."

"I told you. Doctor's orders. As for the rest, I don't know."

"He's living with you, and you don't know anything about him?" with the sort of conscious calm that parents sometimes affect.

"Papa," wearily. "Have a little faith in my judgment, would you?"

"Act sensibly for once, and I'll trust you to do it again." Gilbert looks toward the bedroom. "Shall I wake him up and ask him myself?"

"Papa--"

"Aimery --" in the same tone.

The light goes out of Aimery's face. "He's worth ten of me. And if I have to throw you both out to make sure he's left in peace, I'll do it."

Justine blinks, and looks between them worriedly. Gilbert frowns. "We are defensive. I won't wake him. Tell me about him, Aimery."

Aimery slouches against the desk, his shoulders sagging. "There's nothing to tell," trying, to do him credit, to keep the sulky adolescent tone out of his voice. "He's clever, he's charming, he had to stay somewhere."

"And he's studying -- ?"

A shrug.

Gilbert frowns. "What does he do?"

Aimery sighs. "Did you come to see me, or to interrogate me about my friends?"

"We came to see how you were doing." Gilbert glances at the bedroom door again. "And you're in a rather odd situation. Come on, then, tell us and have done."

"I explained the damn situation. --sorry, Maman."

"Aimery." Gilbert crosses his arms. "I asked you a question, young man."

"Several, as I recall."

"And you haven't answered me."

"I can only answer one at a time."

"Aimery," Justine protests.

Gilbert frowns. "I shall have to wake your friend if you don't answer my question."

Aimery's face hardens. "Threats. Marvelous. --He paints, if you must know. I don't know why that's such vital information."

"He paints. How dear. No wonder he's staying with you."

"I told you why he was staying with me," stiffly.

"Mm." Gilbert shakes his head. "What else have you been doing that you haven't told us about?"

A sudden, wicked grin. "I'd tell you, but I don't want to scald Maman's ears."

And at this, mercifully, Gilbert breaks his promise to be quiet and laughs. "Terrible boy," he says, affectionately.

Justine shakes her head, blushing somewhat, but smiling.

"I know," Aimery says cheerfully. "Dreadful."

"Shall we leave your painter-friend in peace and go elsewhere?" Gilbert asks.

Aimery shakes his head. "They said he shouldn't be disturbed-- but I don't want to get rid of you--"

"Then come with us," calmly.

"I--" Aimery bites his lip, hesitating. "I shouldn't leave him alone like this... Give me a moment." He moves toward the inner door.

Gilbert gets out of the way. "All right."

Aimery lets himself into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and goes to the bedside. "Daniel?"

After a few moments, Daniel blinks at him. "What?" in a sleep-fogged voice.

Aimery touches his cheek lightly. "I'm sorry to wake you. If I leave for a bit, will you be all right?"

"Um. Yes?" Daniel yawns. "Leaving?"

"My parents are here." Aimery kisses his forehead. "I expect you can just go back to sleep. I won't be terribly long."

"Oh. All right." Daniel smiles faintly and seems to fall asleep before he's done with the expression.

" _Mon cher,_ " Aimery whispers, " _mon amour._ " For a moment he stays still, watching; then he gets up quietly and leaves, shutting the door again gently.

When he emerges, his father hands him his coat and his hat. "Shall we?"

Aimery smiles fleetingly. "All right."


	41. Gentler (Prouvaire): August, 1830

The first one was a hetaera, though I did not pay her. It was one of the many evenings when Aimery stood up after a meeting and announced that there was something to celebrate, although he did not explain what that was. Several bottles of wine later, we celebrants -- Aimery, Daniel, and I -- found ourselves in a house that must have had a very good reputation indeed. The ladies within were polite, cultured, courtesans of a sort such that I almost felt comfortable among them.

I heard Aimery say something to one of them about how they should take care of his young friend. I wanted to protest this, but by the time I explained to the girl who had apparently chosen herself for me, he had disappeared, as had Daniel. I stared at the floor for several long moments and felt my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I didn't know any of them by name or by sight. It was nothing like spending an evening with my brothers. I didn't know what to say to these strangers, these strange women.

The one sitting next to me clucked her tongue. "Come now, m'sieur Jean," she said lightly, as if she did not believe that was my name. "Kiss me quick and we'll find a bower, strewn everywhere with petals, if that's your pleasure."

"I don't know," I said, and to my shame my voice seemed smaller than hers.

"We can go if you promise to kiss me once we get there." She touched my shoulder and stood.

I bit my lip fiercely, hoping that the pain would clear my mind of fear. "I'll try." When I stood, it was all too apparent that we were of a height.

"I'm sure you'll do wonderfully well." She took my hand in hers and we left. I doubt anyone else in that room of men and women had noticed we were there, nor that we departed.

When we reached the appointed room, an anonymous, dark place, she kissed me, and there was nothing quick about it. "Whatever are you worried about?" she asked afterward, smiling at me. "If you're as agile as all that --"

"I don't know," I said again, and turned away from her. I knew I was blushing again. "I've never done this."

"Oh, is that it." Her voice was gentler. "Don't fret, handsome Jean. You'll soon have the knack of it."

"I --" I sighed. "You must suffer a lot of idiots like me."

She stepped in front of me and touched my cheek. I looked up at her. If she was laughing at me, she was doing an admirable job of hiding it. "Most of the idiots are the lads who think they know what they're doing."

I shook my head. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Ah, now, of course you can. Lovely boy like you, in the prime of his youth -- it's perfectly natural." As she spoke, she began undressing me. I let her, not knowing a plausible excuse.

"But I don't know you at all."

"You will, soon enough -- sit down, love, would you?"

I sat, but I couldn't look at her. "No, I mean I don't know who you are."

"That doesn't matter so much, does it?"

"Yes." I frowned. "It matters -- I can't --" I waved a hand. "I can't desire you if I don't know who I want, can I?"

She thought about this, all the while running her hands over my body, "Most people seem to be able to desire strangers. But perhaps you don't, or can't." She gave me a cursory look and I nearly died from embarrassment. Her theory was clearly proven.

"I'm sorry."

She touched my lips. "All you need to do is make my acquaintance, though, is that it?"

"I don't know."

"It can't hurt, can it?" She began telling me about herself, or about some woman she had once known, or about a woman who was a lie -- her name, where she'd grown up, what her parents had been like, the job she'd had before she realized that she could make a good deal more money at night. All the while she dropped light kisses on my skin. When her story was over, she smiled at me. "Well, Jean?"

I felt myself blush. " _Enchanté, mam'selle._ " It had worked. Whether she had lied or not, I had wanted to believe her, wanted to know her and understand a little about her. And by the time I felt I had some sense of who she was, I was aching for her. "I still don't know, well, anything."

She kissed me on the lips again. "Easily mended. Here, sit up for a moment --"

I was awkward at first, afraid of offending this woman who was no longer nameless and soulless to me, who was a person whose history I understood. But she was more right than she knew; I had more idea of what to do than I could have admitted to her. "Show me what to do for you," I asked her in the midst of it, and she laughed.

"Isn't for me, now, is it?"

I shook my head. "If -- if you're being paid for this, show me." It hurt a little to remember that she was not with me of her own free will, and more that I was doubly a guest as the recipient of Aimery's largesse, but it convinced her.

"Like that -- no -- there, yes. If you -- oh -- not quite, but -- for God's sake --"

Afterward I was embarrassed again, as though she had become a stranger even as we lay in each other's arms. "Was that adequate, then?"

She kissed my cheek. "More than adequate."

I sighed. "Yes, but if I wasn't -- if you weren't -- in another circumstance, would it be all right?"

"Don't worry, _chéri,_ " she said, softly. "Your ladylove will be pleasantly surprised."

"I haven't one," I admitted, and blushed again.

"A terrible waste of talent." She kissed me, long and lingering, then shook her head. "Did you want to spend the night here?"

"I --" I bit my lip. "I don't know. I'm not paying; my friend is."

"You'd probably best go, then, if you're not sure of his finances."

"I -- I trust him," I said, hesitating a little but unwilling to doubt Aimery in her presence. I was also reluctant to consider my own lonely bed, many blocks distant.

She tousled my hair. "If you'd like to stay, I'll need to talk to him."

I sighed and sat up. "I'll go."

"It's your decision."

"Then I'll go."

She nodded and began getting dressed again. When I was presentable enough to walk home without looking as though I had been robbed or assaulted, I smiled at her for a moment. "And --"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For -- for being patient."

"Of course, Jean. _Bonsoir._ "

" _Bonsoir."_ I left that night determined to repay Aimery, both for the money he had spent on me, and for the experience it had bought.

There were other girls like her, after that, women who were willing to humor my requests for information about themselves if I was willing to pay them a little more than normal. I did not seek their company terribly often. After all, it was a great deal more expensive and troublesome than going home with one of my brothers, who were nearly always glad to see me, and whose personalities and histories I knew well. 

But one of the girls wept in my arms when I asked her about her family. Sweet Genevieve had lost her son the winter before because she could not keep him warm enough to stop his coughing. She needed a warm place to stay before she, too, lost her life to the bitter winter. I found her a room, nothing special, nothing at all expensive, but better than a doorway at four in the morning. I visited her there occasionally and often sent her money for food that she might not have to work on a cold night. I had enough and more to do this good deed, especially after I wrote to my parents about her -- not her as she really was, but Genevieve as she might have been if her family had had a great deal of money. When Théophile decided that he preferred Chrétien's company to mine, I had a great deal more time to spend with Genevieve.

One night she confessed to me that even when she received the money I sent, she went out. I frowned at her in the candlelight. "Why? I don't want you to have to do that in this weather."

"I know," she said, and kissed me. "But I've good clothes because of your kindness, now, so I'm not so likely to get sick, and there are, well, more men would like to come up here than go into an alleyway in December."

"That's not what I had in mind when I rented this room for you."

"You don't need to pay the rent for me anymore."

I sat up. "Are you mad? It's vicious out there."

"No -- please, _chéri,_ relax. I've saved enough money -- not just from you, Jehan, but from what I've earned -- that I can pay it, at least for the next two months."

"And after that?"

"After that, I'll have more saved, and I'll be all right."

I sighed. "I don't understand why you can't do something else."

She shook her head. "A sou for sewing a handkerchief? A centime for a shirt? I don't know what they pay seamstresses who wear their fingers to the bone doing piecework, but it can't be as good as what I earn, now that I'm not on the street."

"But surely there's something --"

"There isn't." She sat up, holding the blanket over her breasts. "Jehan, don't be angry. There isn't any point. This is the only way I can keep even this room, and you know it's small."

"I'm sorry." I reached for my shirt.

"Why? Because you gave me something?"

"Because I can't give you more. I wish I could find you some splendid job, some handsome husband who'd keep you well-dressed and happy."

She was silent for a few moments. "I don't know about the former, but I know someone who'd do for the latter."

"Who -- oh." I blushed and looked at my shirt, anything so that I was not looking at her face. "I can't."

"No?" Her voice was wistful.

"I -- my parents wouldn't --"

"Your parents!" She laughed. "You're old enough to do as you like and bedamned what they say."

I didn't look at her. I didn't know how to explain the other reasons. "I don't have a profession, unlike you. If I told them I was marrying you, and the truth about who you are, they'd be furious."

"You could just say you don't want to."

I winced. "I'm sorry."

"Go on." Genevieve sounded as though she'd been talking for hours. "Tell me you don't want to, so it's out in the open and we don't have to talk about it anymore."

"It's -- I've promised to someone else." It was true, in its way, for when I was not with her, there were four people I could turn to for physical love, and two more who certainly cared about me.

"You're -- when did this happen?"

I bit my lip and got out of bed. "Years ago. I'm sorry."

She shook her head and started getting dressed. "You never told me."

"I didn't know how to explain." I put on my pants.

"And what does she think of all of this, then? This renting a room for a whore." She spat the last word. "Your charity, _m'sieur._ "

"Genevieve. Don't. Please."

"Does she know you're betraying her? Does she know where your money goes?"

I sighed. "Not entirely, but I think if she knew I was helping someone who had needed it, and who was strong enough to be able to stop needing my help -- it would be all right."

She laughed once. "All right! What saint is she?"

I started lacing my shoes. "You don't know her, I'm sure."

"I think I'd like to if she lets you do such things."

"Perhaps. -- Then you don't want any more help from me?"

She frowned at me. "I don't need it, and if you're going to go off and get married, I'll have to get used to managing alone, won't I?"

I sighed. "Yes, I suppose that's true. I should go home, then."

"Yes, you probably should."

"May I kiss you before I go?"

She blinked at me. "Of course, if you want to."

That was not quite the last time I saw her, but she never seemed comfortable around me after that. It was as if my imaginary fiancée had come between us as soon as I hypothesized her and pushed us apart.

Some time after that, I found a volume of Virgil on a park bench. I saw no one nearby who seemed to have lost it, so I picked it up. Written inside the front cover in a delicate hand was the name Emeline Berrube and an address not far from the garden. I had no classes that afternoon and nowhere to be until evening, nothing at all to do, in fact, but deliver Mlle. Berrube's book to her.

She lived on the first floor of a building with her aunt Gaetanne. Their maid answered the door when I knocked and looked at me askance until I explained I had found something of the young lady's and wished to deliver it to her. The maid accompanied me to the sitting room, where mademoiselle was reading aloud to her aunt while the old lady embroidered. They looked up in some consternation when the maid announced me, and I felt my cheeks heat with a blush.

"I'm sorry to intrude on you, but I found this book, and I thought it would be terrible if you were without it, mademoiselle Berrube."

She crossed the room with the light steps of a well-bred young lady and took it from me. "Why, thank you, m'sieur."

Her aunt scrutinized me. "Thank you, indeed. Would you care to stay for a cup of coffee?"

I didn't feel comfortable in their parlor, and I wanted to go home, but I knew that the best answer to that was what I said, "That would be lovely, thank you."

I spoke with Emeline for the most part, about Virgil, his subtleties and turns of fate. Occasionally, her aunt would interrupt with a question about me, my family, my studies, but Emeline would turn the conversation away from that inquiry, which made me nervous, back to Virgil, whom I could comfortably discuss for days at a time.

After coffee, I found myself invited to dinner in two nights' time. That required absenting myself from a meeting, but I hadn't wanted to attend particularly; Théophile had been ignoring me and I did not want to talk to him. Dinner went along the same lines that coffee had: Emeline asked me questions about authors long dead and their great works in order to keep her aunt from asking about my ancestry. I learned, though I had not exactly asked, that Emeline was the daughter of the cousin of the uncle of the grandfather of the cousin of the king, or something to that effect. I tried to look suitably impressed, but I was not sure how impressed I was supposed to be by that news. When they asked me to dinner again, or rather her aunt asked me to dinner, I accepted.

It was a month of uncomfortable occasional dinners before I saw her anywhere but in her home. We went for a walk in the park where she had unwittingly abandoned Virgil, with her aunt and one of her aunt's friends behind us at a distance sufficient that we could talk without having every word overheard, but close enough that I would know we were chaperoned. Those walks became a habit on the three afternoons a week when I had no classes.

I desperately wanted to see her without her aunt's presence. I wasn't accustomed to having a friend as close as she was unless that friend was also a lover. It was uncomfortable, but I was hesitant to propose any sort of indiscretion to her for fear that she would refuse to speak to me again. She was not the sort of girl that one has such affairs with, after all. I suspected that she and particularly her aunt thought that I would propose an engagement at some point, but I was not ready to do that, either. Instead, I spoke with her for as many hours a week as I could spare, wrote her verses, and wished that I could have something more from her.

I missed some meetings when I was expected for dinner, but my friends knew that there was a young lady distracting me, so they could not have been terribly surprised. On the evenings when I could join them, I often went home with Christophe, who had no mistress at that point.

On one such evening, he asked me about Emeline.

"You're pining after her, aren't you?"

This after he had kissed me, when I could think of little but him. "Not right now."

"In general, though." He loosened my cravat. "You've been busy."

"Yes, I suppose." I returned the favor and kissed him again.

"But she's a nice girl?"

"Too nice." I sighed and let him unbutton my waistcoat. "Practically noble, to hear her aunt tell it."

" _Pauvre petit frère._ Have you kissed her?"

"A few times, when her aunt was distracted."

"This aunt --" he had my collar open and my shirt half undone.

"She's a harpy."

"They always are, aren't they. Can't you get the girl, what's her name --"

"Emeline," I said impatiently.

"Can't you get her alone?"

"Christophe --"

"Lie down, _chéri._ "

"Must we discuss this?"

He stood over me, his hands on his hips. "Can you get this Emeline alone, Jehan?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course not."

He began unbuttoning his shirt. "And you're pining for her."

"You seem to think so."

"You are; I know you. Pants, _cher._ "

"All right, so I'm pining." I took my pants off.

"Do you like pining?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not. I'm making a point. Do you like pining?"

"No." I threw my pants at him. He caught them and tossed them over the back of a chair. "What's your point?"

"I seem to recall you don't like rejection."

"Who does? Christophe --"

"Patience." He unfastened his pants and stepped out of them. "Tell me about her."

"Why?"

"Because she frustrates you." He sat down next to me and ran his hand down my body.

I shivered. "I don't want to think about being frustrated, now."

"Tell me. I won't leave you frustrated."

I kissed him. "I don't want to be frustrated at all, damn it."

He caught one of my wrists, then the other, and held them. "Talk, Jehan."

I made a face at him. "You are incredibly aggravating. I should go home."

"Probably," he conceded. "But you won't."

"She has perfect lips," I said, if only to shut him up. "And her aunt doesn't let her use many cosmetics, so the shade of pink they are -- like the clouds at dawn in May -- is her, absolutely."

Christophe grinned at me. "Really."

"Yes, really. Kiss me, damn it."

He obliged at great length, as if making up for all the kisses I had never been able to give her. Afterward, his tone light as though he was not aroused, he asked, "What else?"

"Her waist is slim, not simply from fashion -- God, Christophe, must I?"

"Go on, make me fall in love with her."

"You'd hate her."

"Why?"

"She'd never let you touch her."

He raised his eyebrows as though I'd surprised him. "How so?"

"If you took hold of her narrow wrists like this, _mon frère,_ she would scream."

"A terrible pity." He let me go and sat up to fetch a bottle of oil.

I shook my hands a little, though he hadn't hurt me. "It would be, at that."

"What else?" He kissed me lightly and handed me the bottle.

"I --"

"Go on," he said, and I knew he was laughing at me.

"I've only seen her ankles twice," I admitted. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think of her, delicate and beautiful, while faced with the aroused, supine bulk of Christophe.

"And?"

I shook my head. "I told you, she's naturally slim. I'm tired of this game." I knew part of what he wanted. I wet my fingers with the oil and set the bottle on the bedside table.

He sat up a little and kissed me. "I only want you to feel better."

"You're not a terribly good surrogate, that's all."

"Do you think so?" He lay back a little so that I was between his spread legs, as clear an invitation as I needed to caress him and slide a finger inside him.

"You couldn't be less like her if you tried."

He laughed. "I don't want to be her. Does she let you make love to her?"

"Of course not. Don't be absurd."

"You keep missing the point."

"You don't have a point." I wanted to stop the discussion, so I added a little more oil and a second finger.

"I do." He bit his lip. "I want you, Jehan."

"I noticed," I said dryly.

"Do you desire her?"

"Yes, but she's not you."

He shook his head. "I know that. But it can't do you any good to think about her when you can't have anyone."

"You're right here, aren't you?"

"Yes -- God, _cher,_ do that again."

"What was your point?"

"Just --" he hesitated, and I smiled. He had tormented me in the same fashion for too many nights; it was a small, sweet revenge. "If it helps to think about her --"

I blushed, though he had his eyes shut and couldn't have seen it. "No, thank you. Not when I can think of you. Are you --"

"Yes, damn it." He pulled me close and kissed me again. "Picking up my habits will get you into trouble."

I did not think of the answer to that until we had finished. It was not the relief from Emeline he had wanted it to be -- he was altogether too masculine, too male for me to forget for an instant what I was doing. It was easier the next day when I walked with her in the park, but that was thanks to his habit of exhausting me as soon as I'd woken up in the morning, not to the recital of her charms.

It was June, then, and I had been visiting her since March. At the end of July, I missed a dinner to attend a hastily scheduled meeting and two walks in the park. She would not have wanted to be in the park then. It was overfull of men with guns: my friends, our allies, strangers, soldiers.

I was with Théophile and Chrétien all the while. In the excitement and fear of it all, I began to understand what was between them. We took refuge in their flat both nights, for it was closest to where we were during the day. On the second morning, I embraced Chrétien and surprised both of us. But I grinned at him when he pulled away from me. "I'm sorry, you know. For everything -- _mon frère._ "

"It's all right." He blinked at me. "At least, I think so."

"You deserve an apology, that's all."

"Well. Thank you." He glanced away from me in the moment before Théo hugged us both.

"Idiots," he said fondly.

"No, I was the only idiot." I sighed. "I am sorry."

"It's all right," they assured me in chorus, then looked at each other and laughed.

"Thank you."

Chétien shook his head. "Don't mention it. We should go."

We went. For the first time, I felt as though I was with two dear friends instead of Théo and a nuisance. We found the rest of our brothers, and not long afterward, we found victory.

Théo and I spent the night with Christophe, Aimery, and Audric. I wanted to apologize to Chrétien for that, but there was never a good moment for it. Théo doubtless made his own explanation and apology at some other time.

Several days later, I went to Emeline's home and found it in chaos. The books and belongings were disarrayed. Half were in stacks on the floor and the other half were moved from their normal places. "Where have you been?" she asked me as soon as the maid brought me to her.

"I was fighting for freedom of the presses," I said proudly.

She slapped me so hard my ears rang. "How dare you!"

I blinked at her, one hand to my cheek. "What?"

"You took part in that madness?"

"It wasn't madness, Emeline, it was a revolution."

She stepped away from me as daintly as she could across the messy floor. "It was horrible."

"No," I protested. "It was for the good of the country."

"Leave!" she pointed toward the door.

"What?"

"You heard me. Go, get out of here. Don't come back."

I stared at her. "Why?"

"If my aunt heard you say that, she'd have the police after you."

"But we were in the right."

"We're leaving Paris," she said and shook her head. "We can't stay here if things like that are going to happen."

"It's over. I don't understand you."

"We're leaving Paris, I said."

"All right."

She pulled out a handkerchief and began weeping into it. "Don't you care where I'm going?"

"You just slapped me."

"You were talking about the terrible riot!"

I shook my head. "I should go."

"But --" she threw up her hands. "Wait a moment." I watched in silence as she found a pen and a scrap of paper and wrote an address on it. She thrust it toward me. "Here. Write it me. Visit me. Please, Jehan."

I took the paper because she was still crying, but I said, "You don't want to speak to me."

"No, it isn't that, it's just the horrible riot frightened me terribly."

I shook my head. "It was a revolution, Emeline."

"It wasn't!"

" _Adieu,_ " I said, as mildly as I could, and started for the door.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked, on the edge of hysterics.

I turned and looked at her. Her tears had made her face powder into a striped mess, and her eye makeup was a wreck. She was sniffling and blowing her nose. The last thing I wanted was a kiss from her in that state. "No, thank you. Goodbye, Emeline. Have a good trip to --" I looked at the paper "-- les Eyzies."

"Cad!" she called after me. I let myself out rather than waiting for the maid 

That night, I told the story to Théo in my bed after we had made love.

He chuckled and tousled my hair. "Poor Jehan. My evil genius has been looking out for you."

"No, she hasn't." I kissed him. "Not if you're here."

"Hush, love, you'll remind her."

I grinned at him in the dark and laid my head on his shoulder. "All right," I said, deliberately loudly. "It was horrid and my heart's broken." In a whisper I asked, "Is that better?"

He laughed. "A little, anyway. _Je t'aime._ "

I kissed his cheek. " _Je t'aime aussi._ Sleep well."


	42. Duplicity (Pontmercy): October, 1830

Even when the weather was cold, I walked in the Jardin du Luxembourg for a time each day to keep my mind clear and give myself a while to begin thinking in French again after the trouble of translating all day. It would never do to address someone in English or German when they have no expectation of it and no desire to hear the guttural sounds, and so I strolled, thinking of very little, but determined not to use the wrong words.

It was a habit that several others acquired as well. I sometimes saw Courfeyrac there and spoke to him, although my speech halted and stammered when the wrong words crowded in on me. He must have thought me a fool in those times, or distracted by something more intriguing than himself, if he was listening at all.

We all had our schedules, even the ones I had never addressed. On a fine morning, I went as I always did and began to walk back and forth. There was Huguelet, who always nodded as I went past and sometimes distracted me considerably from my perambulations by complaining of the professors whose classes we had taken together. Courfeyrac was not there quite yet, although surely he could not sustain a game of billiards much later in the morning than that hour. Monsieur Leblanc was on his bench --

\-- but who was that?

She sat on a bench as an angel sits on a cloud, without noticing that it is there. She wore a hat, perhaps at the height of fashion, but most certainly becoming, and her dress was black and simple. Her cheek was pale and delicate, her curls dark where they fell upon her shoulders, and her hands were small and white. There was something in the curve of her mouth that spoke of amusement with the world, and she was ever so beautiful.

I could have walked by if she had not looked up at me, if our eyes had not happened to meet. There was something in her gaze which caught me. I stopped walking, a flood of compliments rising to my lips in German, but I bit them back. She would have thought I was cursing her and clearing my throat rather than singing her praises. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks for the things I had not said, for the many things that I thought in that moment.

"Monsieur," she said to me, and her voice was low and soft.

It was then I realized that I had been standing there, perhaps for a moment, perhaps for a minute, gazing at her. I looked away, though the autumnal park held little else as lovely as she. For a moment, it seemed I knew her face, but I dismissed that, for I know no lovely girls.

"Come and sit with me," she said, and when I looked back she smiled at me and I was lost.

I had no sense of how to conduct myself in such a situation, but it struck me as horribly rude to deny a sensible request on the part of a charming lady, and so I sat beside her, hoping that my blush had faded and that she had not noticed the shabbiness of my clothing. Her own gown was nothing expensive. It reminded me of Mademoiselle Lanoire, except that this girl was nothing like her. Perhaps the vision on the bench beside me would not notice the imperfections in my attire.

She put her hand on mine, softly, and I turned to look at her again, my heart leaping in my breast. "I have seen you before, I think," she said softly. "Do you walk here often?"

I cleared my throat, trying to hold back the barbaric languages that wanted to answer this dulcet question. "Nearly every day."

"And yet we have not met before." She smiled at me. "May I ask your name, m'sieur?"

"P- Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy." Like a fool, I stammered, but she did not seem to notice.

Her smile brightened. " _Enchantée_ , Marius. My name is Jeannette." Before I could answer, she kissed me. The light touch of her lips against mine dizzied me until it seemed that the only real thing in the world was the feeling of her hand squeezing my fingers and the taste of her lips. I wanted to hold her more closely, but the thought that we were in public restrained me.

"Mam'selle," I said, sighing, as she broke the kiss.

She put a finger over my lips. "Jeannette."

"Jeannette --" I knew I was blushing again. "I --"

"Perhaps we should talk elsewhere?"

I wanted to protest, but she kissed me again and the words faded. What we were doing was improper, though it was not uncommon, and to suggest something more frightened me a little. I could hardly look at her and remember my own name. How would I converse with her without sounding like a babbling madman?

Her pretty face was a little flushed. She said, "Please, Marius, not in the Gardens," as though I had kissed her. I might have initiated the kiss, at that; I was not objecting to it in the least. I wanted to kiss her again and erase the nascent pout.

I stood and offered her a hand up, although I was not sure of my own sense of balance. She stood and took my arm lightly. I did not know where we were going. I could not take a lovely girl to the cafés that I frequented. My friends would tease me endlessly. I hesitated. She tugged on my arm a little and kept going, and so I walked with her, letting her lead me where she would. We talked a little as we went, for though I could think of very little to say, I could answer her questions about what I was studying and what sorts of things I liked to do.

I expected that we were going to have dinner together, perhaps, or at least something to drink, but when she went up to the door of a building, it looked like an apartment building. "Mam'selle," I said, trying to form a coherent objection, but she kissed me again, there in the street.

"Jeannette," she corrected me, then went in. I wanted to talk to her, to understand her, but no words came to me. I followed her up the stairs. At midday, it seemed as though she was the only tenant at home. Her flat was furnished with books upon books, and it had a freshly-scrubbed look about it, as though she had been expecting to entertain a guest. A plant sat on her windowsill, looking forlornly out at the fall weather, wishing for summer already. When she had locked the door and taken off her bonnet, she embraced me, and when I would have asked her to be more cautious, she kissed me again, and the words left me. "Handsome Marius," she murmured between kisses, and I could not meet her eyes.

"Jeannette," I said, "perhaps we should talk?"

She laughed: soft, low, and somehow familiar. "Oh, _mon chéri_ , we can talk later." She sat on the bed, one of my hands still caught in hers, and drew me down to sit beside her again. "Please, Marius --" and even if I had had a speech prepared, it would have fled when she kissed me again and laid her slim thigh alongside mine and her hand in my lap.

I had been dizzy with confusion before, but this made my predicament acute. I knew I should push her away and tell her not to do such things, but they felt far too pleasant for me to protest them. She had unfastened my pants before I realized it, and in a confused moment had taken off my shoes, and then my pants, until I was half-naked and lying on my back. 

I wanted to touch her, but she would hardly allow it. I could only run my fingers through her hair and kiss her. I wanted her to enjoy whatever this was, though I did not have a clear idea of what it was, or how I would go about making her happier, but at every tentative move she prevented me, moving my hands away and murmuring endearments. I could hardly protest, not while she was kissing me, and she was so thorough that I when I was naked she had only removed her shoes.

Before I entirely realized what she was doing, I was inside her and I could not think of anything but the slick heat. She laughed, perhaps at me, though I had done nothing and could do nothing with her weight settled over my hips. "Oh, Marius," she said, and her voice was lower than before, "you're lovely."

"Jeannette," I said, and I had meant to say more, but she moved, and all the world depended on that movement. It was strange indeed to be able to feel her so intimately and yet to see nothing of her body, as though we were in a darkened room instead of a flat lit by the midday sun. I reached under her skirts, trying somehow to make a connection with this alluring girl.

The illusion fell apart, and I knew him in a moment. I said, "Jean," hoarsely, and his eyes opened. Beautiful eyes, beautiful face, and he smiled at me, all innocence in the midst of this seduction. I did not desire him, the boy with the delicate face and sweet verse, a friend, not a lover; and yet even in my surprise I wanted this, and instead of pushing him away as I should have done, I pulled him closer with a sigh.

"I thought you'd noticed sooner," he said, catching my free hand and kissing it. "I suppose I'm -- oh -- better than I thought."

I was embarrassed at being taken in although I knew he had been trying to trick me. It was simpler by far to say, "You were convincing," than to accept that I should have looked closer, should have seen, should have heard it in his voice.

He laughed again and moved against me. "Thank you, _mon ami_."

Before, I had thought that "Jeannette" was uninhibited, but Jean made her seem prudish. Freed of the necessity to dissemble, he caressed me and demanded kisses, whispered horrible things and laughed when my face turned red with embarrassment. I could not stop the desire I felt for him, although I understood none of it.

It passed in a wave of fire and left me gasping and sticky with Jean, still fully dressed, catching his breath above me. I covered my eyes, not wanting to see him recovering from the fit of passion, and unable to look anywhere else. He kissed me lightly and got out of bed. "I really must change, _cher,_ " he explained, and began taking off the dress.

I sat up with a lethargy in my bones born both of exertion and of shame. That I had allowed myself to be seduced by a willing girl -- that was bad, but worse yet that it was a friend, a colleague, and I had not even recognized him. I dressed as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the weight in my spine that wanted nothing more than to sleep in the lately bedraggled bed, and I said nothing to him.

I had only just tied my cravat and picked up my hat, and he had only begun to button his shirt, when there was a knock on the door. "Who is it?" he asked, glancing at me.

"I missed you in the park, Jeannette," a man called, and with a chill I realized it was Aimery.

Jean laughed. "I'm sorry, Aimé," he said lightly, opening the door, "I was distracted."

Aimery and I blinked at each other. If it were possible to die of embarrassment, I suspect I would have done so then. "Good afternoon, Courfeyrac," I said, my cheeks aflame, and I put on my hat.

Aimery glanced at Jean, a smile beginning around his lips. "Good afternoon, Marius."

"I was just leaving," I explained, painfully aware that I had again disgraced myself in his eyes -- although how was I to know that they were lovers?

"Good afternoon, Marius," Jean said to me, and kissed my cheek as I walked past him. "Thank you."

Aimery must have understood that all too clearly, for he stepped out of my way and I fled that place like a wild animal freed from a cage. I slammed the door behind myself, and even though I clattered down the stairs as loudly as I could manage, I could hear them laughing together, laughing at me.

The next day, I tried to walk in the Luxembourg, but I paused at the beginning of my habitual path. I could think of nothing but the taste of Jean's mouth and the way his skin felt. Lust and disgust rushed through me, and I hurried from that place. I knew I could not return until time was merciful and I did not have to recall the unfortunate incident with such clarity.


	43. Need (Feuilly): October, 1830

Do any of the others ever want him as desperately as I do? Do they plead in that horrible voice, half-whimper and half-whisper, to feel him, to taste him, to do all those hundred shameful things?

Sometimes it seems I am only sure of him when he is inside me. Surely he thinks only of me when I take him in my mouth, when I let him -- no, when I beg him to forget my old fears and my old hesitations and make love to me, and that, that is not the word. The word is 'inside,' for I want him within me, safe, far away from anyone else.

He is gentle, still, always, though he does not always relish gentleness -- for I have seen the marks of their fingernails on his shoulders, though I said nothing. He keeps that in check for me, whether in deference to the injury that has healed or in belief that I would dislike it, I cannot say.

I can think of nothing but him when his hands are on me, when his lips press against mine, so familiar and sweet. He must keep his head better than I do, for I am nothing like as overwhelming as he is. I could not be. I could drown in simple kisses for hours; when I am not welcome, the memory of his hands is enough to warm me past bearing.

It is no better by day. I doubt he thought, when he opened his doors to me, how much it would affect me. He has been my dear friend, my lover, and I have called him brother for years, but never have I meant it so much as now. I have no family; he is my family. I am a fool to trust him so, perhaps, for if I should say it in an afternoon with the sun shining brightly off his curls, he would smile and laugh it away. He wants to be carefree and thoughtless, though he is truly neither.

If I should whisper to him how much I care for him in the dark of a night when we lay close together, he would listen, then. Aimé would take it as his due, and perhaps even then he would forget the responsibility that comes with that love. I love him and I need him.

But he does not need me. He is his own man, his own person, free to take whatever lover to bed that he desires of a night. He never lies awake, alone, missing me. He has his own family, and I am not a part of it; the sight of me brought a scowl to his parents' faces. He has other lovers, other friends.

I lost my mistress for love of him, and though I have friends almost as dear as his, if we ever fought they would all take his side against mine. Without him I have only myself, and I am less now than I have ever felt before. I have changed for him; he is the same damnably charming, perfect man I fell in love with, years ago.


	44. Fidelity: November, 1830

Aimery has had quite a busy week. Audric had a minor crisis on Tuesday that absolutely required a private discussion that lasted until two in the morning. Jehan was in an odd mood the next night and spent a great deal of it in Aimery's bed reciting poems in Greek and refusing to translate them. Christophe helpfully offered to distract Aimé from the rigors of classes and introduced him to a young lady named Marie-Louise on Thursday. On Friday, Daniel sits next to Aimery at the start of the meeting and puts a hand on his sleeve, saying, "Don't go off tonight. Please," but offering no further explanation.

After the meeting, they walk to Aimery's apartment. Daniel refuses to explain in the street, but as soon as they arrive he embraces Aimery, kisses him, and takes hold of the back of his jacket. "I hate it when you do this to me," he says breathlessly, a few minutes later.

"Do what?" Aimery inquires, indistinctly, between kisses buried in Daniel's hair.

"Run off on me for days at a time." Daniel sighs. "I just wish you weren't so bedamned popular."

"Ah, beloved." Aimery collapses onto the bed, tugging Daniel after him. "I am sorry. These things just seem to happen."

"They never happen to me," somewhat testily.

Aimery grins at him. "Perhaps you haven't given them a chance."

Daniel gives him an unamused look in return. "I seem to recall sleeping with a good number of people at one point. Was I supposed to want to continue in that vein?"

"No," sobering. "At least-- not necessarily. Damn it," but he seems vexed with himself rather than with Daniel. He shrugs off his rumpled coat and holds out his arms, for all the world like a hopeful little boy.

Daniel's expression softens. He takes his coat off and hugs Aimery. "I love you. You know that. I just -- I wish you didn't have however many other people who you care about just as much as you care about me."

"Dearest--" Aimery sighs. "It's not--"

"Isn't it?" Daniel shakes his head. "I'm being an idiot. Don't mind me."

Aimery runs his fingers through Daniel's hair, lingering. "You're never an idiot."

"No?" half a sigh. "I think that bothering to be jealous of my dearest friends is rather stupid."

"No. Just-- unnecessary." Aimery kisses his cheek. "Sometimes someone needs me more than you do. And-- sometimes I need a change. It doesn't mean I don't love you-- with all my heart."

Daniel frowns. "You don't, though, and I shouldn't expect you to." He sighs. "Last night I'm sure you loved Christophe with all your heart. Didn't you?"

"Daniel..."

"Didn't you?"

Aimery can't quite repress a grin. "That wasn't my heart."

Daniel blushes and sits up. "Aimery, that's not -- God. I might as well go home."

"Daniel. Don't. I'm sorry." Aimery catches at his sleeve. "I'm sorry. Just..."

"What?" impatiently. "Just I can't do enough for you, I'm not interesting enough for you, and you don't care for me any more than you care for the rest of them. I know this, and I should damned well remember it, but I tend to forget. Forgive me. I'll leave you alone."

Aimery takes hold of his shoulders. "No. No, no, and no. Daniel, please." He is serious again, his eyes dark with distress. "Listen to me. I love you. I don't say that lightly -- and you're not interchangeable, for God's sake, that isn't it at all."

"It seems that way." Daniel shakes his head. "I know you love me. That isn't a question. It never was. And -- I don't understand. Tell me."

Aimery sighs, and is quiet a minute, looking away. "It's... it isn't fair, to love you best."

"Then I fear I'm being hideously unfair." Daniel touches his hair lightly. "I haven't even the decency to hide the fact that I adore you."

"Ah, cher," Aimery sighs, and turns to kiss his fingers. "And I you. Very nearly more than everyone else." He smiles ruefully.

"This is a ridiculous conversation," Daniel observes, "and it's not even comforting. I should go."

"Please don't," softly.

"I should," again, "until I can remember that it's not a question of degree, or amount, or anything like that." Daniel shrugs. "But sometimes I wonder why you would want me, if you have all of them."

"Because you're you, damn it." Abruptly, Aimery tackles him. "Because I adore you. Because no one else would come home with blue streaks in his hair, or chide me for wasting candles, or paint me en deshabille, or tickle me when I compliment him too familiarly. Because you're wonderful, Daniel."

Daniel blushes. "Yes, but they're all wonderful, or you wouldn't want them, either. I -- I wish I wasn't one of --" he bites his lip "--however many people there are who you adore."

"Seven," Aimery says mildly, "of whom three are disinclined to accept my, er, wholehearted adoration, and another is generally only interested when he's vexed with Bossuet." He kisses Daniel lightly. "So very much competition, chéri?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if you missed me all that much when I was with Rosalie."

Another kiss. "I tried not to."

"I'm sure you succeeded," dryly, but Daniel embraces him again.

Aimery settles into his arms with a sigh. "To some extent. Yes."

"Your trouble," kissing his cheek, "is that you're charming enough that you get what you want almost all the time."

Aimery laughs heartily at that. "Do you think so? Why, I've been wasting all this time. Here I could have gone and paid a visit to King Charles and asked him kindly to step down, as a favor to me. Not to mention saving considerably on my rent."

Daniel chuckles. "As long as you never kissed him, chéri, I think it would have worked."

Aimery sits up in mock indignation. "Oh, are my kisses that offensive?"

"No, beloved, but if I thought you'd been consorting with the likes of him, I wouldn't do this --" and Daniel kisses him at great length, winding his fingers into Aimery's hair and starting to unfasten his clothing.

"Ah," breathlessly. "I see. Just as well, then," and he returns the favor.

"Isn't it? God, I love you." Another kiss.

"What luck I have," Aimery murmurs, heartfelt, and tugs the blanket up over them.

* * *

Last night, Aimery spent the night with Bahorel, doing several exciting things with several naked people. When he and Daniel arrive at his flat, it is a great deal quieter than it was the night before, though as soon as they arrive Daniel embraces him and kisses him passionately.

"Ah, chéri," Aimery sighs when he gets a breath. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

Aimery twines his fingers in Daniel's hair. "Drive me to distraction in the space of a minute."

"I learned from the best," lightly. "God, Aimery -- I --"

"Hmm?"

Daniel bites Aimery's lip gently. "Wish you wouldn't -- wouldn't go off like that."

Aimery shivers. "God... It's only Christophe, cher." He kisses Daniel's cheek. "Not as if you didn't know where I was--"

"I know perfectly well --" Daniel sighs. "It doesn't help that it was Christophe."

"Why?"

Daniel frowns. "Nothing. Never mind." He kisses Aimery again.

Aimery accedes to this cheerfully, running a hand down Daniel's back.

Daniel pulls him closer. "Just -- God, love."

"Bed?" suggests Aimery, after a pause.

Daniel sighs. "I --"

"Please?" kissing him again lightly. "It'd be more comfortable."

"I'm sure." He shakes his head. "I just -- I don't know if I can do this."

Aimery frowns a bit. "Do what?"

Daniel looks away from him. "You should have asked Christophe again."

"No, I shouldn't," calmly. "Daniel-- come to bed with me. Come sit with me, at least."

"Yes, you should have," embracing him tightly. "At least he wouldn't be fool enough to mind what you'd been doing a day or a week before."

Aimery returns the hug, and chuckles. "He'd have little enough grounds to complain if he did."

"Yes, but --" Daniel nuzzles his shoulder. "But it wouldn't bother him at all. And it bothers me."

Aimery sighs. "Come sit with me?"

"All right," softly.

Once they are comfortably situated on the edge of the bed, Aimery embraces Daniel again. "I don't understand," he confesses.

"It's stupid."

"You're never stupid."

"I --" Daniel leans on his shoulder. "It bothers me that you -- what you do with other people." He sighs. "And that, frankly, is stupid."

"No. Just-- I don't understand," tracing a finger along his shoulder blade. "Aren't we all--"

"Friends. Brothers." Daniel shrugs. "They're not all my lovers. But you are -- and -- and that changes things, for me. I know you don't think about this the way that I do, I know you can love them and me, and not slight anyone, but it -- I can't think about what you do with them and not be uncomfortable."

Aimery is quiet for a minute. "What would you have me do?" he says at last, neutrally.

Daniel shakes his head. "Nothing. It's my problem."

"Daniel..."

Daniel shrugs. "I wouldn't ask you for anything. I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"You are who you are. I knew what your habits were when this started. I shouldn't expect you to change."

"But you do," gently.

"No. I would only be happier if you did." Daniel embraces him.

Aimery hugs him tightly. "It comes to the same thing."

"No, it doesn't. You don't have to do anything to please me."

"Then what kind of lover am I?"

Daniel blinks at him. "One who has better things to do than humor jealous whims."

Aimery looks back at him gravely. "Is it only that?"

"I -- I don't think so, but --" he frowns. "You wouldn't like it."

"Declining Christophe's invitations? No, I wouldn't." Aimery is still calm.

"And I'm no more important to you than he is," Daniel's voice is more than a little bitter, "so I've no reason or right to ask you --"

"Did I say that?"

"You didn't have to say it."

"Daniel--" Aimery sighs, glancing away. "If you ask me to choose between you-- you should know what I'll decide."

"I don't know," softly. "And I don't have the right to ask that."

Aimery touches his cheek. "Between Audric who has his Julien, and Jehan who has his Theo, and Christophe who exhausts me in a night, and you? That shouldn't be too confusing."

"Yes, but -- there's only one of me."

"True," smiling wryly. "A distinct but entirely forgivable flaw."

"And the rest of them have the sense not to be jealous, or at least not to complain --" he smiles. "Or, they're not jealous of you. Though why anyone would be quite so possessive of Bossuet..." he shrugs.

Aimery laughs at that. "I've yet to quite figure that out, myself."

"Whereas you --" Daniel kisses him.

Still chuckling, Aimery returns the kiss. "Flattering scoundrel," he says breathlessly after a minute.

Daniel laughs. "Credit where credit is due. And -- I love you."

"And I you, mon cher. Quite to distraction."

"Really?" wistfully.

"Really." Aimery touches his cheek. "Never doubt it."

Daniel glances away from him. "I --"

"What, love?"

"I can't -- and I shouldn't ask you."

"Can't what?"

Daniel takes his hand. "I -- I shouldn't ask you to choose."

Aimery kisses his fingers mutely.

"Damn it."

"Cheri--" Aimery sighs. "If you want me to... refrain... then I'll do my best."

Daniel is quiet a moment. "I -- just tell me, please, when -- when you can't -- I know it's not fair and I know you aren't used to it --" he embraces Aimery. "I'll-- oh, god, cheri, if I could be --"

"Shhhh, love." Aimery pulls him close. "Shh. It's all right."

"I know I can't make you happy all the time -" Daniel kisses his cheek. "But I will try."

"I know," softly.

"I adore you." Daniel tangles his fingers in Aimery's hair and kisses him at great length.

* * *

Late the next week, Aimery arrives alone at Musain, Daniel having other business on this particular night. As the gathering is quite small and quite select, he greets Christophe unabashedly with a kiss, which makes Julien cough and Audric shake his head. After that little display, however, he is on his best behavior for the rest of the evening.

At the end of the meeting, once Julien is safely out of hearing distance in Audric's tender care, Christophe grins at Aimery. "Shall we go, mon ami?"

Aimery shakes his head, unusually grave. "Not tonight, cher."

Christophe blinks at him. "No? Daniel's busy, isn't he?"

"He won't be when he gets home," Aimery points out, "and--"

"And what? When he gets home, he'll be home, and not in your way."

Aimery sighs. "Chris-- I promised him not to."

Christophe frowns. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"For the sake of peace?" Aimery runs a hand through his hair. "I-- I don't know. It's important to him. And-- it's probably good for me," ruefully.

"Good for you?" Christophe snorts. "I doubt it. What could it possibly hurt to do what you've been doing for years, on another night? It's just me." He shakes his head and gets up. "But, fine, if that's what you want to do."

"It isn't, particularly." Aimery stands, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't go off angry, will you?"

"Why are you going along with this if you don't want to, then? I'm not angry. I just don't see the point."

"Because." Aimery sighs again. "Because it matters to him, and..." Uncharacteristically, he trails off.

Christophe gives him a long look. "That doesn't make any damned sense. We've been doing exactly what he objects to for how long now, while he's been -- doing whatever it is he does, often, if I recall correctly, involving you. You've mentioned this to him, I assume?"

"Yes." Aimery's fingers play with the cuff of Christophe's sleeve. "It just-- he had a hard enough time with this to begin with, you know, and-- the rest of you have someone else."

"Carine is a lovely girl," Christophe says, shrugging, "but she isn't you, and I wouldn't want her to be. And -- I can see why he might object, I suppose, but why are you humoring him?"

Aimery looks at him a moment, and leans over to kiss his cheek. "For the same reason I hope you'll humor me, mon cher."

"I was damned well offering to humor you," gruffly. He tousles Aimery's hair. "How long is this going to last, then?"

Aimery ducks reflexively. "I don't know."

"Indefinitely?" Christophe rolls his eyes. "Well. Enjoy it, then."

"I'll try." Aimery shakes his head.

"It seems like a terribly difficult thing to enjoy. Well --" Christophe glances at the door. "Give Daniel my regards."

"All right." Aimery kisses him again.

"Goodnight, Aimé." Christophe smiles at him, then walks to the door. "You're sure about this?"

Aimery smiles wryly. "Sure enough. Goodnight, mon ami. Take care of yourself."

* * *

Perhaps a month and a half after Aimery begins spending all of his ights in a predictable location, Daniel skips a meeting and asks him to make an excuse. Daniel goes to the flat that he technically occupies, gathers the few things that are his -- an extra coat, a box full of books, and a few odds and ends. He takes his leave of the proprietor of the building, pays off the rent that he owes the man, and brings his things to the much more expensive place where he has spent the majority of his time in the last several weeks. He arrives well before the meeting ends, so the flat is still empty. He arranges his belongings in a corner of the room, inconspicuously, and then goes to bed, though it is still early.

Aimery comes in significantly later than he normally would. He pauses in the doorway, and sighs quietly before getting undressed.

Daniel wakes up a little during this and smiles at him. "Good evening, chéri."

"Evening." Aimery reaches over to smooth his hair affectionately.

"Did the meeting go well?"

"Well enough."

"Nothing earth-shattering happened?" Daniel asks lightly, and yawns.

Aimery smiles a little in the darkness. "No." He slides under the covers, shivering a bit.

Daniel embraces him with a small, contented sigh.

Aimery pulls him close, kissing his cheek. "'night, cher."

Daniel gives him a real kiss in return, then blinks at him in the dark. "Aimery?"

"Mm?"

"What --" Daniel lets him go. "I --"

Aimery sighs. "You what?"

"What have you been doing?"

Aimery shrugs, looking at the wall.

"Hell. You could have -- you could have warned me. Explained. Or just told me." Daniel sits up and gets out of bed. "Or didn't you realize you were tired of me until I wasn't there?"

"It's not that, damn it. You know it's not." Aimery sits up, catching at his arm. "It's never that simple, I told you that to begin with."

"What was it, then?" Daniel bites his lip, hard. "You knew I was going to be here. You could have damned well come home. You could have told me you -- you needed something else."

Aimery takes a deep breath, and lets it out. And another. "Yes. All right. I should have thought."

"It would have been better than surprising me." Daniel sighs and touches his shoulder. "I knew you weren't enjoying this experiment half as much as I was."

"I wanted to." Aimery sighs, takes Daniel's hand and kisses it. "I just-- I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Daniel gets back into bed. "Of course it's all right. You just startled me."

"I know. I-- hell." Aimery sinks back against the pillow.

"I -- what do you want from me, really?" Daniel asks, keeping his voice calm. "I asked too much of you."

Aimery is quiet for a minute or two. "It's not your fault, now, is it."

"If I hadn't pushed you into this -- I wouldn't have been so foolish." Daniel kisses his cheek. "I should go, tomorrow."

Aimery tenses. "...If you must."

"I would rather not." Daniel embraces him. "But I can't very well stay indefinitely; I could never find the money."

"Oh, for God's sake, Daniel--" Aimery hugs him tightly.

"And I'm in your way here," mildly.

"You are not."

"Of course I am. If I'd been somewhere else, you could have --" Daniel sighs. "Could have brought whoever it was back here."

Aimery snorts. "That would have required more forethought than I had. Clearly."

Daniel nuzzles his shoulder. "You were thinking ahead," mildly. "You didn't bring him with you, now, did you?"

Aimery coughs a bit. "Christophe-- doesn't allow much time for planning."

"If you say so."

"Mm."

"Still, I don't want to stay and make you pay for it."

"Daniel." Aimery slips an arm around his waist. "You talk as though I'm not glad to have you here."

"When you'd rather be with someone else," snuggling up to him, "you'd probably be happier if I had somewhere else to go."

"For your sake, not mine," somewhat amused.

"And the sake of whoever it is," kissing his shoulder.

Aimery chuckles at that. "Generally speaking, no."

Daniel tickles him. "Terrible man."

Aimery squawks and writhes. "What? It's the truth-- stop that!"

"I'll have to take your word for that." Daniel desists, kisses his nose, and relaxes. "In any case --" he yawns. "Goodnight."

"Daniel?"

"Hm?"

Aimery kisses him, emphatically and at some length.

"Oh," Daniel says afterward. "Really."

Aimery nods solemnly. "Really."

"Well." Daniel kisses his cheek. "What do you expect me to do about that?"

"Whatever you see fit, love."

"I don't know." Daniel runs his fingers over the lines of Aimery's face, lightly tracing his cheekbones. "You're the one who's had a long night already."

Aimery smiles at him in the darkness. "Ah, but I've made you worry. The least I can do is try to make amends."

Daniel shrugs. "You needn't. It's enough that you'll let me stay."

"Given what an idiot I've been, I wouldn't blame you if you threw me out." Aimery kisses him again, lightly. "Should I let you sleep, then?"

"And have you run off tomorrow because I've refused you?" Daniel kisses his cheek. "Whatever you like, love."

"Like hell." Aimery pulls him close. "You take that back."

"I --" Daniel sighs. "I don't know why you do that sort of thing. If you want something from me, I'm at your disposal."

The smile goes away. Aimery lets him go, and shifts to bury his face in the pillow.

"Don't, please." Daniel embraces him. "See -- I should go. This doesn't make you happy."

"Damn you," indistinctly. "I love you. I don't know why that's so incomprehensible."

Daniel sighs. "I love you, too, but I make you unhappy."

"No." Aimery sits up abruptly. "I make you unhappy. If you weren't such a self-effacing idiot, you'd notice the difference."

Daniel frowns. "Which is why you were just kissing the pillow? I know when I'm unhappy, and I'm -- not. Not really."

Aimery scowls at the wall. "If I wanted somebody to be at my disposal, I'd pay them by the hour. I woke you up. You want to go back to sleep, then go back to sleep. That's all."

"I didn't mean it like that." Daniel runs a hand down his back. "Don't be upset -- it's not that important."

"It is if-- damn it." Aimery puts his head in his hands. "I wanted you to be happy, and instead I upset you and you end up comforting me. A fine job I'm doing."

Daniel shrugs. "It's all right. Hug me, would you?"

Aimery complies with a sigh. "I'm sorry."

Daniel kisses him at length. "Everything is all right."

Aimery returns the kiss, and holds him tightly for a moment. "If you say so."

"Just warn me before you wander off, all right?" Daniel strokes his hair.

Aimery nods.

"I love you."

"And I love you. No matter what a mess I make of showing it."

"You've been doing very well," softly. "Don't you know how happy I've been?"

Aimery hugs him tightly in answer.

Daniel murmurs a string of endearments in his ear and finishes with, "And you're not perfect, but you're better than I am."

"The hell." Aimery kisses his cheek. "Stop right there."

"You've never asked me to change," defensively.

"Because I adore you just as you are. Ergo, you have no faults worth mentioning." Aimery ruffles Daniel's hair. "Get under the covers, will you? It's freezing."

Daniel pulls up the covers and settles beside him. "Sorry."

Aimery nestles beside him and embraces him again. "Better."

"I used to have -- more difficulty than this," Daniel says softly.

A pause. "Yes, you did."

"But you never complained."

Aimery blinks. "Of course not."

Daniel sighs. "And I had no right to complain about what you do, either."

Aimery is quiet a moment. "That's different," he says in quite another tone.

"How?"

"You weren't doing anything wrong."

"Neither were you. And --" Daniel shifts a little and kisses his cheek. "In a manner of speaking, I was treating you badly, then."

Aimery snorts. "Not that badly. And-- not when you could have done better. That's the difference."

"But I could have done better. I have, since then, so I could have then. I just had to learn."

Aimery pokes him. "These things take time."

"And practice."

"Exactly."

"And instruction, which I should have asked you for -- god, a long time before I did." Daniel touches his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Mon frere. It hardly matters." Aimery kisses him again.

"I must have vexed you terribly." Daniel sighs. "And I wasn't fair to you."

"Daniel, for pity's sake."

"I wasn't." Daniel fidgets a little. "I love you."

"I know. I love you, too."

Daniel kisses him at length.

Aimery pulls him close, sliding a hand down his spine.

"Well," breathlessly, "we can make up for lost time, now."

"This is entirely true."

"God." Daniel kisses him again.


	45. Deception (Feuilly): January, 1831

I told him it was all right that he came back to me after making love to someone else and didn't confess it until I already knew what had happened. I lied. And then he wanted to embrace me, wanted to make everything better with a kiss and a caress, as if that has ever helped anything. I was furious with him, furious with myself for trusting him not to try to deceive me, and sick at heart. And I let him draw me into his arms, I let him kiss me though he still tasted of Christophe, I let him make love to me. The truth is that I am too much in love with him and I could not refuse him even though he betrayed my trust. If I had said it wasn't all right, if I had told him how much it hurt that he needed someone else after everything I've tried to do, we would have argued, and it is an argument without resolution. I want him to be faithful; he is apparently incapable of it. If I had argued, I would have wanted to go home.

Fool that I was, I had no home that night but his bed and no place in the world but his arms. I did not want his hands on me then, for there was an ache in my chest from everything I could not say. But I have spent enough time learning to want him despite discomforts that I could please him, even while I wanted to leave. He had what he wanted of me, and if I seemed less enthusiastic than usual, he did not complain of it. I slept beside him and woke with tears in my eyes, for even in my dreams I knew that he could never have been what I need him to be.

That evening I took my possessions out of his room again as though they had never been there or belonged there and explained to my former landlord that I thought I had found somewhere better with lower rent, but it turned out to be a trick. He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder sympathetically, saying, "Isn't that the way it always is," then gave me back my old keys. I could not have explained to him or anyone else that the price for staying with Aimery was my self-respect.

I haven't told him how upset he'd made me, but he should have known. I don't know why he couldn't see how happy I was when I believed he wouldn't leave, why he didn't realize that my happiness was based on one very simple thing: my ability to trust him. I need him far more than he needs me. What am I to him but another friend, another lover, another person to hold? He is fond of me, yes, but no more than he is of the rest, no matter what he's said. If he knew me as well as he ought to, if he loved me as much as I love him, he would understand, and he would change.

I need him to love me, and I need to know that he does not forget me when he is with someone else. That is why I painted his portrait. That was something no one else could or would do, something of him that is only mine. There is nothing else he gives me that he has not given to another, words of love or caresses or devotion. All I have of him is that I gave him fragile immortality, oil on canvas that would burn in a minute if someone decided to do that. I was more than a little tempted to do it myself that night, if only so that I would not be reminded of the impossibility of what I wanted.

I did everything I knew how to do to make him happy, everything he would tell me that he needed or wanted. I have changed to please him in ways he asked and ways he did not ask. I wanted to be everything he needed in the way that he is everything that I need: my friend, my brother, my lover. If it were only the first, it would not matter whom he kissed; only the second and I would be content. But with the third, everything changes. I trust him still as a friend and as a brother. If he had broken either of those bonds, I could never have stayed with him that night. As a lover, however, I must relearn to mistrust him. He has my devotion, though he would rather not have it, and it is not enough. I am not enough for him, no matter how it hurts that that is so. He needs liberté in this.

And he will have both liberty and me, though it nauseates me to think of it, because I love him for everything good that he is more than I hate him for the bad things. I can't imagine being apart from him for long even now, because he is more to me than any lover could -- and perhaps should -- be. I don't have the force of will to resist him and never did. He must know that I am angry with him; even he cannot be so optimistic that he thinks I have forgiven him already. If I started to tell him that I am angry with him and why, I would not be able to stop.

Why must he ask the only thing that I cannot do? Why is the thing I need most from him impossible? I cannot forgive this and I cannot be comfortable with it. I can only pretend it does not exist and find some brief peace in denial.


	46. Transgression: September, 1831

In the early evening, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and a pleasant-if-coquettish young lady sit in the back room of the Café Musain, chattering and teasing like old friends. They all seem quite comfortable, as though they were in a space that feels like it's theirs rather than a public space. From time to time, the girl will kiss one of them, and they will all laugh. There is no meeting scheduled in the Musain; Enjolras has been ill for quite a while and has only just begun to recuperate, so his friends and cronies are not obligated to discuss Revolution in his absence. However, now that he is feeling some better, Combeferre feels that he can leave for an evening. He walks into the back room, expecting to see his friends, and stops dead in the doorway. "What -- good evening."

Courfeyrac glances up, blinks, then grins with a faintly daredevil air. "Good evening, Audric."

Feuilly stands up abruptly. "I'm sorry, Audric, I've got to go. I'll -- see you later." He bows slightly to Combeferre, kisses the young lady's hand, and goes out through the door to the main café.

The girl blows Feuilly a kiss as he goes, and then turns and smiles at Combeferre, brightly. "Good evening."

Combeferre blinks at her. "Good evening -- I -- good Lord, Jehan. What _are_ you doing?"

"Humoring me," Courfeyrac breaks in, blithely. "How's the invalid, then?"

"What?" Combeferre begins turning red. "Julien is fine -- what is this nonsense? What are you doing?"

Prouvaire spreads his hands, framing his torso and highlighting the fact that he's wearing women's clothing. "I'm only sitting in a café, _mon ami._ Is that so terrible?"

"You look like --" Combeferre splutters.

Courfeyrac grins. "Doesn't he, though? Oh, sit down, cher. Stop flailing."

Combeferre glares at Courfeyrac. "I will not sit down. Go home, Jehan. You -- my God, what possessed you? This is idiocy. What would you do if someone noticed?"

Prouvaire shrugs. "You noticed, didn't you? And you won't do anything but get flustered. It's all right, Audric."

Courfeyrac taps his fingers on the table. "No one has noticed, except you and Daniel. I doubt anyone will. _Ma chère_ Jeannette is getting quite convincing." He grins. "She may have turned a few heads, on the way over here, but not in a bad way."

"That isn't funny, Aimery!" Combeferre throws up his hands. "Jean, go home. Dress sensibly for once in your life, or dress all in purple, but stop this. Jeannette." He nearly spits the name. "You're both mad."

Prouvaire stands up in a swish of skirts. "I'm not going home, yet, and I shan't put on pants to make you more comfortable. I'll leave if you'd rather, but -- you never made us promise not to enjoy ourselves."

"Audric--" Courfeyrac stands, more quietly, and reaches out to settle soothing hands on Combeferre's shoulders. "Calm down. We're only playing. There's no need to get upset."

Combeferre's jaw sets in a more irritable line than usual. "It isn't funny. It's foolish. What would you do if someone caught you?"

Courfeyrac takes refuge in flippancy. "Lament, without ceasing, that we failed to heed your wise words. What else?"

"Damn it, Aimery." Combeferre backs away. "All right, play your games, and I shan't stop you. You may be as infantile as you like -- but leave. Go somewhere else, be foolish there. Not here."

"Oh, by all means we'll stop being indecent in your sainted meeting room." Courfeyrac shoves his chair under the table. "Since Julien's infected you with his qualms as well as his sniffles. We'll go somewhere else, and you can sit here by yourself, secure in your rectitude and good sense."

Prouvaire frowns. "Is it that important? Please -- don't do this."

"Don't do what?" Combeferre asks, sharply. "You are -- it's not the indecency I object to, Aimé, it's -- how many risks do you think we can take before something goes wrong?"

Courfeyrac shrugs. "Is it more risky to sit in a café frequented mainly by our friends, or to go wandering about the streets where we're liable to run into policemen and drunken louts?"

"Then act sensibly." Combeferre shakes his head. "If I see either of you doing this _stupid_ thing again, I will be exceedingly upset."

Prouvaire says, "But Audric, it's not dangerous, here, and the only person that's gotten upset has been you."

Combeferre half-snorts, half-laughs. "And shall I tell Julien about this, then? Do you think he would approve?"

"If you feel it necessary," Courfeyrac says dryly. "I'm fairly sure he'd survive the shock, even in his delicate state."

"He would survive the shock, and he would be furious with you." Combeferre sighs. "It isn't a game. Not all of it, and it isn't -- appropriate to play games."

Prouvaire frowns. "I don't see why not."

Abruptly, Courfeyrac loses patience. "For the love of Christ, Audric!" He has been leaning on the table; he straightens. "I promised you love and loyalty and dedication to ideals. I said nothing about being staid and sensible. This has nothing to do with you, and less to do with Julien. Don't be so bloody _serious_."

"Don't be so foolish, and I won't have to be serious to make up for you." Combeferre's shoulders slump a little. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

Prouvaire laughs. "We said, Audric. It's just a game."

"It isn't funny."

Courfeyrac slouches against the table again. "It amused us." He shrugs, looking at Prouvaire. "Perhaps we'd better go, after all."

Prouvaire kisses Courfeyrac's cheek. "If we must."

"I'm going home," Combeferre says, "and I don't care what you do, but I can't bear to look at you like that, Jehan. It makes me angry and uncomfortable. I'm leaving." He walks toward the door.

"Good night, Audric." Courfeyrac's tone is pointed. "Give Julien my regards."

Combeferre slams the door behind himself as he leaves. Prouvaire winces. "Why on earth was he so upset?"

"I--" Courfeyrac sighs. "I don't entirely know."

"I'm sorry." Prouvaire picks at his skirt. "I suppose I am foolish."

Courfeyrac reaches out to put an arm around him. "I was the one who proposed it, wasn't I? Don't fret."

"Yes," as he accepts the embrace, "but I probably shouldn't have gone along with it."

"Hush. It's all right."

"I'm sorry," again.

"Shhhh." Courfeyrac pulls him close. Lightly: "It's not your fault if Audric can't appreciate your beauty or your sense of humor."

"I suppose." Prouvaire rests his head on Courfeyrac's shoulder, and all is picturesque and quiet for a moment.

There is a tap on the door from the main café after a few moments. Prouvaire startles and covers his carefully painted mouth with one hand. "What now?"

Courfeyrac chuckles, letting him go. "Relax, _chéri._ " And, louder, "Yes?"

"It's just me." Feuilly comes in with a plateful of grapes. "I'm sorry about that."

"You could have just come in," Prouvaire says, and walks over to greet him with a kiss on the cheek that makes Feuilly blush.

Courfeyrac regards them both with eyebrows raised, amused. "No need, _mon ami._ I'd have fled, too, only I didn't think Jehan could keep up with me, as he is. Come sit."

Prouvaire wrinkles his nose at Courfeyrac. "Yes, all right, it's not the easiest thing to walk in these shoes, but it isn't that bad."

Feuilly shakes his head and pulls out a chair. "You two. I don't know what to do with you."

"Oh, come now," protests Courfeyrac. "We aren't that bad, are we?"

Feuilly sits. "You're perplexing."

Prouvaire laughs and sits beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Ah, but we mean to be."

"Exactly." Courfeyrac kicks out a chair and drops into it. "The look on our friends' faces, just before they start lecturing us. That's the point."

Feuilly delicately brushes a lock of Prouvaire's hair away from his face. "Is it, really? I didn't think so."

Prouvaire blushes. "Part of the point."

Courfeyrac half-smiles. "Mm."

"It's all very strange," Feuilly says quietly.

Courfeyrac shrugs, a trifle impatiently. "Why?"

Feuilly blinks at him. "Because it makes me think differently than I normally do about someone I had thought I knew well." He smiles at Prouvaire. "And not, _mon frère,_ in an uncomplimentary fashion."

Prouvaire smiles at him. "Why, thank you. It's good to hear that after Audric's temper."

Courfeyrac grins at that. "How sweet."

Feuilly shrugs. "It's the truth. I -- I keep thinking it's not you, Jehan, even though I know it is."

Prouvaire fidgets with his sleeve. "Really? That's odd."

Courfeyrac chuckles. "So do I, every now and then. Isn't that the fun of it?"

Feuilly regards Prouvaire for a moment. "Yes, I think it is. I -- I don't understand it."

Courfeyrac smiles, and says nothing.

Prouvaire shrugs. "It wasn't my idea. I don't really know. Ask Christophe."

"I don't think I want to hear what he had in mind," Feuilly says, chuckling. "I mean -- God, but you're beautiful." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

Prouvaire edges his chair toward Feuilly's and touches his shoulder again, lightly. "It's all right, Daniel."

"Christophe," says Courfeyrac cheerfully, "would explain to you in words of one syllable, devoid of finer feeling. I love the man dearly, but his sense of the romantic resides in his trousers. No." He smiles at them, leaning his elbows on the table, and lowers his voice. "She is beautiful. And she's our Jehan, all the more lovely when you realize how well he's deceiving you, all the more charming because real girls don't take so much care about it, all the more desirable for being our dear friend as well as being an absolute vision." And he glances at Feuilly, not without mischief. "Don't you think?"

Prouvaire buries his face in his hands, blushing from collar to hairline. "Aimé, for heaven's sake."

"I don't know if I'd have said it like that," Feuilly admits. "But -- I suppose. I'm just not used to all of this, even now." He bites his lip. "I'm sorry. I should go, and not interfere in your game."

Courfeyrac grins at Prouvaire; then he sobers, reaching out to take Feuilly's hand. "You're not interfering, _cher_. But if you'd rather go, I... suppose that's understandable."

Prouvaire straightens, though his face is still pinker than rouge made it, and kisses Feuilly's cheek. "Don't go. Please."

Feuilly looks at the table. "I don't know why I shouldn't."

Courfeyrac smooths his hair back, nearly paternal. "Because we enjoy your company?"

"Yes, but I don't know what I ought to do." Feuilly shakes his head. "No -- I know what I ought to do, but I don't want to do it."

Courfeyrac regards him quizzically.

"I should go," Feuilly explains. "I shouldn't stay, I shouldn't waste your time and get in your way."

"You're not in the way," Prouvaire says, touching his shoulder. "Please don't go."

"I should," Feuilly protests. "This is your game, your dangerous, beautiful eccentricity -- your way of being in love with each other. It has nothing to do with me."

Courfeyrac chuckles. "Daniel. Brother. Beloved. You don't intrude in the slightest." He leans over to kiss Feuilly in turn. "Stay. Talk with us."

"But you're doing this with each other. For each other." Feuilly shrugs. "You don't need me."

Prouvaire shakes his head, his long curls bouncing. "We may very well want you along, Daniel. Whyever wouldn't we?"

Feuilly blushes. "I don't know why you would."

"Because we love you." Courfeyrac pokes him in the arm. "Now stop that."

"Perhaps you do," Feuilly concedes, using the singular.

"Daniel, I --" Prouvaire leans over to give him a kiss on the lips, which gives Feuilly a moment's pause before he accepts it and allows himself to enjoy it for a moment. When Prouvaire breaks it off, Feuilly has red smudges of lipstick on his mouth and a rather dazed expression.

Feuilly says, "Oh," after a few moments, and, "Um."

"I hope, Daniel," says Courfeyrac in a tone that would be stern if he wasn't grinning, "that your intentions are honorable."

Prouvaire giggles. Feuilly shakes his head a little and smiles at Courfeyrac. "As much as yours are."

"That's all right, then," cheerfully.

Prouvaire blinks at them both, feigning confusion. "I'm glad you think so. Whatever your intentions are, gentlemen, they had best be honorable." 

Feuilly nods ceremoniously to Prouvaire. "I am sure you know just how virtuous Aimery is."

Courfeyrac leans back comfortably in his chair. "Never otherwise."

Prouvaire stands and brushes his hands down the sides of his skirts. "I'm sure, _mon ami._ I believe I'd like to go home."

Feuilly stands. "Have a good evening, then."

Prouvaire frowns slightly. "I cannot go without an escort, Daniel." 

"But -- Aimery --"

Courfeyrac pushes back his chair. "Tsk, _mon ami._ Are you going to refuse a lady?"

"But he's --" Feuilly sighs. "You're both mad."

Prouvaire kisses Feuilly's cheek. "Don't tell everything you know."

Courfeyrac rests a hand on Feuilly's shoulder briefly. "Granted. Well?"

"I don't know. What do you want of me?" Feuilly gives Courfeyrac a look that, for no apparent reason given the setting and the company, is best described as frightened.

Courfeyrac touches his cheek. "It's all right, Daniel. Everything's all right. Come with us?"

Feuilly frowns. "Whatever for?" He waves a hand. "You've company."

"Please do," Prouvaire says, deliberately softly.

Feuilly shrugs and turns away. "I don't understand."

Courfeyrac sighs, and pushes his chair under the table. "All right. You don't have to do anything."

"You don't need me. Why -- why this? Why now?"

Prouvaire bites his lip. "I'm going down the street for a little while, so you can talk." He goes to the door to outside.

"Be careful," Courfeyrac says quietly.

"I shall." Prouvaire leaves.

Courfeyrac watches the door shut, then turns back to Feuilly. "What is it, _mon ami_?" still quiet.

"I don't understand why you've invited me." Feuilly looks at the floor.

"Because we wanted to. God knows if you want to go home, I won't stop you. Just--"

"What?"

Courfeyrac hesitates. "Do you want to go home?"

After a moment, Feuilly shakes his head. "No," he admits quietly. "No -- I -- but I should want to."

"To hell with should." Courfeyrac kisses him lightly. "Come with us, Daniel. _Mon amour._ Please?"

"All right." Feuilly embraces him. "I'm only afraid I'll want to leave at some inconvenient moment."

Courfeyrac hugs him. "I'll take that chance."

"And will Jehan?"

"I should think so."

Feuilly squeezes him for a moment, then lets him go. "You play the most confusing games, Aimery."

Courfeyrac grins. "It keeps me from getting in a rut. Shall we go and check on our friend?"

Feuilly splutters and socks him in the shoulder. "Like hell it does. -- All right, all right."

"What? Are you accusing me of being dull?" grinning.

"No. I'm accusing you of being lustful." Feuilly grins back. "And if you're going to deny that -- I'll go home."

Courfeyrac laughs. "I would never dare." And, crossing to open the door, "After you?"

Feuilly grins and goes out.


	47. Intermediary (Feuilly): September, 1831

I have seen Aimery look at many women since I realized I loved him, but it was not until that evening that I thought I might lose him to one. She was sitting with her back to the door, long, dark curls hanging down her back, and I could see his face in profile as I came in. He was smiling at her in a way I'd never seen him look at a woman, sweetly, amused, and with a sparkle in his eyes. I had only seen him look that way a very few times, and he had been smiling at me, then. It was the look of a man who has just told a joke, and followed it by saying that he was in love.  
  
My heart skipped in my chest. I feared that whomever this girl was, he would leave with her, and no matter that I would like to hold him, that I would tell him between kisses how much I cared for him. She would be what I could not be, lovely and sensual, caring and sexual. He loved her; he no longer needed me.

Aimery turned as I stood there, terrified and bewildered. "Daniel," he said, and his smile broadened. "Come and sit with us."

I wanted to refuse, to let him sit with his new love so that I would never need to learn who she was or why he loved her, but the girl turned.

She was heartbreakingly beautiful. Her pale face had a hint of roundness at the cheekbones -- she was young, then -- and her eyes were dark. She wore a little makeup, but it was skillfully applied, making her eyes seem that much wider and her lips that much redder and fuller, without the intrusion of too much cosmetics to ruin the illusion. It was hardly necessary; the lines of her face were nearly perfect, and when she smiled, she was innocent and enticing at once.

She was Jehan.

I coughed when I realized that, and they looked at each other and laughed. I wondered for a moment just how long I had been staring at him, admiring him and fearing that I would lose my lover to him. "What are you doing?" I asked when I caught my breath. "Are you mad?"

"Of course not," Jehan said, and laughed again.

"Come and sit," Aimery said again, though he was still chuckling. "The look on your face --" He shook his head and pulled out a chair for me.

I sat and looked at Jehan again. He was wearing a pale green dress that, against all reason, suited him better than most clothing I had seen him wear. He was wearing the appropriate undergarments, which was at least as disconcerting as the appearance that he had somehow acquired a bosom. Every time I blinked, he was female again, and beautiful. I had to remind myself that he was only a painted boy playing a strange and dangerous game. "Why are you -- what possessed you, _mon ami?_ "

She blushed, and Jehan chuckled. It was still his laugh, unmistakably so. "It's only an experiment. A game, Daniel. Don't take on so."

I frowned. "But why?"

"To see what it would be like, because I could." Jehan waved a hand, a little more slowly than he normally might, as if he were a lady, which, in a way, he was. 

"It was Christophe's idea," Aimery admitted. He reached over to touch my shoulder. "Are you quite all right?"

I glanced at him, not understanding why he had asked. "Of course I am."

Aimery grinned. "Then you might stop staring at Jehan."

I looked at the table. "I'm sorry -- I didn't realize."

Jehan reached over and touched me on the shoulder. "It's all right." I looked up, and she was as radiant as the dawn, smiling at me with love and friendship in his eyes. I wanted to kiss him, or her, whomever it was, surpassingly lovely and kind. I took his hand and would have given him a more earnest sign of affection, but the door opened and Combeferre came in.

I knew I couldn't explain any of what I was feeling to Audric, and I was not inclined to try, so I made my excuses and went into the main room of the café, where men were all in pants, reliably sensible or reliably drunk, but masculine in appearance. It was not until I sat down by myself that I realized that Jehan had been wearing some floral scent or other, too delicate for a dandy, too faint to serve the normal purpose of perfume. He smelled nothing like the men in the café proper. 

It was difficult to piece together any coherent thought about either of my friends when I was half listening for them, and half concentrating on remembering the sequence of my reactions to Jehan in his skirts. Aimery had been amused, at me, at him, in his inimitable manner of laughing without giving offense. Jehan -- it was easier to think of him as my friend, my brother, when he was not flirting with me and rustling petticoats. I did not want anything from him, not when I could think, not when I thought of him as a brother. But when he was someone else, something else, I wanted him.

It felt dishonest to desire him in his artifice, because of the artifice, when I knew as well as he did that it was only a game, but the dishonesty did not decrease my -- lust. Aimery didn't feel betrayed; I don't know if he ever would, over that. But I still felt as though I was being unfaithful to him by wanting Jehan, Jeannette. I told myself what I already knew -- that Aimery most likely wanted me to react as I did, and that it was no stranger than any of the young ladies he had seduced and brought home on a night when he was expecting me. This could easily be no different than that, those soft young things I could kiss and fondle when I could not yet touch him, those girls who were the love I shared with him, for a night. If they had stayed longer, there would have been trouble, they would have wanted to be more than what they were to us, but they were enough.

Jehan was no intermediary, no stranger who'd go in the morning and never be seen again. He was my brother and his own person -- beautiful, strange, and somehow intoxicating when dressed in clothes that made him different than what he usually was. I wanted him, I wanted her, because I knew I could want a girl though I would not want a boy, except for Aimery. 

The door slammed in the back room. I wondered if that had been Audric in a rage or Aimery and Jehan leaving together to avoid him. I sat a few moments, wondering if I should look for Aimery if he'd left, wondering what Audric would say to me if he was there, or what I would say to Jehan if he was there. I got up and went down the hall to the back room, then tapped on the door.

Aimery answered. I went in, half-relieved and half-wishing that I would not have had to see him, nor Jehan, that evening. Jehan was in his arms, slim, handsome, beautiful. I wanted them both with a ferocity of desire that surprised me. I wanted to leave, and let them be alone, but I also wanted to stay. I suspected that if I stayed long enough, Aimery would understand what I could never articulate -- the strength of my affection and love for them both, and the effect that Jehan, Jeannette, had on me.

He knew as soon as I came back, and Jehan must have known, too. I dithered until he kissed me, at which point I doubt I could have gone home alone happily. I needed Aimery's reassurance, which he gladly gave, and then we left together and talked of nothing in particular until we arrived at Aimery's flat. Jeannette was ever more feminine as we walked, in order to preserve the illusion for any passerby. That did not fade in private. She embraced me and kissed me -- not in a manner that any girl has ever kissed me, more hungrily perhaps. I could feel the lines of her undergarments under my hands, and the hint of something between her legs until she stepped back a little, sparing my sensibilities and flirting with my lover all at the same time.

I offered to leave again, and they both told me to stay. There was a knot in my stomach of lust and tension, something like fear and something like love. I didn't want to go, but I would have if they'd told me they'd changed their minds. We all sat on the bed, which creaked a little. They both had their arms around me, and I was kissing Jehan while Aimery undressed me. Every so often, Jehan would let me go and say something appropriately coquettish for Jeannette, make a little gesture that brought the illusion back. 

By the time my shirt was crumpled on the floor and my pants were open, I was thoroughly aroused and not thinking at all about Jehan, sweet brother, dear friend. Aimery knew from years of experience how to drive me to distraction and beyond it. I lay on his bed in his arms, my hands on his bare back and the fabric of his trousers scratching against my legs. I wasn't thinking of anything but how good his hands felt, until Jehan cleared his throat. I blinked at Jeannette, the handsome girl, the beautiful boy. She had repainted her lips recently, for surely I had smudged more of the paint from them than what she wore. "You're taking up the whole bed," she said lightly, and I realized he was still wearing the dress and its associated accoutrements. 

"Ah. My apologies, _ma cherie,_ " Aimery said, and moved so that she could sit at the foot of the bed.

She sat, and in a rustling movement she knelt, then bent her head and began, without further ceremony, to suck me with more gusto than any woman I'd ever had in a similar position. His curls fell around his face, framing his wide, bright red mouth and his powder-pale skin. Aimery kissed me, perhaps afraid that I would find another objection to this breathtaking spectacle. I returned the kiss, then found his hand and squeezed it. "Let me -- I want to see this, _cher._ "

Aimery smiled at me. Jehan stopped for a moment and smiled at me. For a moment, it was all real, and terrifying -- how could I ask such a thing of someone who was not my lover, someone whom I respected? I shivered and made a move to get up, but Aimery put a hand on my hip. "Daniel. It's all right." He kissed me and touched my cheek gently, as he used to do when I feared making love to him.

I closed my eyes. "It's lovely," I said, aware that I was making a dangerous admission, and giving them permission to go on.

And they did, with apparent pleasure. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see Jehan. If I could tell myself it wasn't him, everything would be enjoyable. I tangled my fingers in her hair, and heard what was nearly a giggle. Aimery kissed me again in the midst of it. I was loved and desired, embraced and caressed all at once. Everything was painfully perfect, impossibly wonderful. I must have said something that I was too distracted to hear.

I opened my eyes again when Aimery was about to kiss me. "Ah, so you're not asleep," he said, and ran a hand down my chest.

"Not quite. Not yet, no." I sat up a bit. Jeannette had retired to the chair by Aimery's desk and was fixing her cosmetics. I reached for the sheet -- she was still dressed, and Aimery still had his pants on. "I'm sorry," I said to her. "And -- thank you."

She glanced up from her little mirror and smiled. "You're very welcome, Daniel. It was my pleasure."

I frowned. "No. I don't think it was. If you want, I could --"

Aimery interrupted me with a kiss, then said lightly, "Now, _chéri._ Don't go seducing her, will you? We have plans. Come back to bed, Jeannette; I want you inside me."

I sat up the rest of the way. "I'll leave."

Jeannette rustled over to the bed and kissed me. She tasted of fresh lipstick, and when she deepened the kiss, I had to pull away. It was too bizarre to taste myself on her tongue. She said, "Please, stay."

"But --" I began to protest.

She kissed me again. "Don't go, Daniel. It would be rude, wouldn't it?"

"I don't think I can do anything for you," I admitted. It was embarrassing that I had asked anything of Jehan, though I knew I could not reciprocate. I felt as though I had obligated Aimery to act as my second, then lost the duel before we'd reached the appointed time. 

"You needn't." She smiled. "After all, if I wanted something from you, I would have to turn down Aimery's generous offer, and I don't think I could do that."

I looked away from her. "All right."

Aimery put a hand on my shoulder and I turned to him. He was as serious then as he'd been all evening. "If you're too uncomfortable, neither of us will be offended if you go. Right, Jehan?"

Jehan said, "No, of course you can go if you want," and not in the higher register he'd been speaking in as Jeannette. "I was teasing, mostly."

I nodded. "All right. Could I have my shirt, please?" Jehan handed it to me with a flourish. I pulled it on, though it was rumpled and spattered with green dots from the day's work. "Thank you." Once I was no longer naked, I got out of bed and embraced Jeannette. "You are too kind to me. I don't understand, entirely."

She kissed me, and this time I did not flinch. "Everything's all right, _mon frére._ Truly."

Aimery yawned abruptly, then chuckled and apologized. "Come to bed, Jeannette. It's getting late."

She turned and smiled at him. "Not too late, I hope." I let her go and she retrieved a bottle of oil from inside the bedside table with the deft fingers of one who knows exactly where to look. She got into bed with him and clucked her tongue. "Why are you still wearing pants?"

"A grave oversight." He took them off and tossed them to the end of the bed. "Better?" He was naked, and as handsome in his nudity as ever. She was still fully dressed, save for her shoes.

"That's much better, yes." She glanced at me. "And are you going to want to move that chair?"

I shrugged and tried to pretend I hadn't been watching them avidly. "I -- I don't know."

Aimery reached over and I took his hand. "Stay close by," he said. "Please. -- If you can."

I nodded, let him go, and pulled the chair as close to the head of the bed as I could comfortably put it. While I did that, Jeannette said, "On your stomach, _chéri?_ " and Aimery agreed and shifted accordingly. "God, Aimé," she said, and her voice was Jehan's for a moment. "You're damnably handsome."

He tucked his arms under his chin. "Oh? Thank you, _ma chérie_."

"It's only the truth." And it was, from where I sat. By the light of the candle on the table, I could see them both clearly -- Aimery stretched out luxuriously on his bed, every line of his body familiar to me, and Jeannette in her skirts sitting near his waist. "All right, love," she said, not entirely a question, and he bit his lip for a moment. She had slid a finger inside him.

I had to look away, then. I knew what that intimacy felt like from both sides; to watch it was briefly overpowering, perhaps more so because I knew the look on Aimery's face as he relaxed into the sensation. I could see his expression in my mind and imagine the clench of his muscles clearly. I clenched one of my hands into a fist and let the pain as the nails dug into my palm bring me back to my senses.

Aimery was sighing by the time I was able to watch again. "Jeannette," he said, his voice lower than normal, "please -- you don't have to be careful. I've been waiting for this all night."

"Really?" She reached under her skirts and spread them so that the hem was high on his back. She closed her eyes for a moment, then shifted forward a bit. "It probably does you good to wait for something, Aimé."

"I don't care if it does. Please."

She grinned at me a moment, then shook her head. "All right, impatient one." Jeannette braced herself with one hand on the mattress, and fumbled under her skirts with the other.

Aimery moaned and said, "Ah, Jeannette," as though he'd been practicing, as though he did not have the clearest evidence that it was Jehan under those skirts.

"Dear Aimery," she said, more breathily alto than before. After a few moments, she stopped bracing herself with one hand and switched to the other in order to run her fingernails down his back. He twisted on the bed and pushed back against her, which made her laugh, bright and girlish. "Oh, you like that?"

"Yes. Please --" he hissed as she did it again. "Wicked girl."

"Anything to oblige."

He opened his eyes again and looked at me. "Kiss me, Daniel. Please?"

I had been enjoying the spectacle they presented, Jeannette the far-from innocent girl and Aimery, debauched under her draperies.This was probably my only opportunity to participate; I suspected Aimery was on the verge of coming, and Jehan could not have much more endurance. I stood and knelt by the bed to kiss him just as Jeannette made him moan again. "Shh, _chéri,_ " I said softly to him, though I doubted he heard. Kissing him was a much more effective way to quiet him, though the angle was slightly awkward. It did not take terribly long, after he'd asked for a kiss, before he cried out against my mouth, and a few moments later, Jehan whimpered a little.

I sat back on my heels and watched the last of the tension leave Jeannette's body. She sat back, much as I had, and laughed. "You're splendid, both of you."

I shrugged. "I had very little to do with anything." It was just as well that I had accepted her earlier overtures, or I would have wanted to ask them for more than they had the energy to give. As it was, I knew I would see them together in my fantasies, but I was not aroused then.

"It isn't that often that I have an audience," Jehan said as he got up, a little shakily. "Could you help me get out of this contrivance?"

"Gladly."

Aimery yawned and rolled onto his side so that he was facing us. "We ought to do this more often."

I shrugged. "I don't know, really. I -- wouldn't presume on Jehan."

Jehan looked over his shoulder toward me. I saw his face in profile, still painted, still beautiful. "It wouldn't be a presumption."

"It would," I explained as I loosened his stays, "if I asked you to wear all of this, every time."

He looked ahead again. "Ah."

"And I wouldn't ask that."

Aimery said, "It was only a thought." 

I helped Jehan out of the last layer of undergarments. He was unintimidating in the extreme, naked, vulnerable, and young under his paints. He turned and hugged me. "Do you mind if I stay?"

I kissed his cheek. "Of course I don't mind."

Aimery blew out the candle and left us all blinking in the dark. "Come to bed, _mes amis._ "

Somehow, I ended up between them, Aimery's comforting, familiar warmth at my back, and my arm around Jehan's slim body. "Goodnight," I said, once we'd all exchanged light kisses.

Aimery squeezed me for a moment. "Goodnight."

Jehan reached back and patted my hip. "Goodnight."


	48. Contrite: October, 1831

On a blustery October day, Jehan knocks on Bossuet's door after class. He has a book tucked under one arm and a bouquet of flowers in his free hand.

"Coming," distractedly from within. In a minute the door opens. "Hello, you."

Jehan beams at him. "Hello, _chéri_."

Bossuet grins back. "Come in."

Jehan offers him the flowers. "Gladly."

Bossuet chuckles, and kisses his cheek before taking them off his hands. "You're looking well."

"So are you, _mon amour,_ " fondly.

"No black eyes," Bossuet agrees amiably. "I-- Bother." He looks about rather helplessly for a place to put the flowers.

Jehan shakes his head a little. "Oh, dear. I hadn't thought of that."

After a moment, he settles for the nearest level surface. "There. Kiss me?"

Jehan sets down his book and settles into Bossuet's arms comfortably. "They can't stay there forever," between kisses.

"I expect not," contentedly.

"Théo," softly. "The way you smile at me. You make me feel I am the most wonderful person you know."

Bossuet touches his cheek lightly. "So you are."

Jehan blushes. "Only sometimes, beloved. Sometimes I don't deserve you."

" _Cher_ ," he protests.

Jehan kisses him softly. "You are good and patient, kind and long-suffering as a saint. I should not treat you the way that I have in the past. I --" he bites his lip. "I won't. Not ever again, however wicked I may wish to be at some mad moments."

"Oh, petit--" Bossuet returns the kiss and hugs him.

"I'll never leave your side unless you ask me to," Jehan says into his shoulder. "Come and stay with me, my dearest, if you wish; there's more than enough room. How sweet it is to hold you, to love you -- _mon ange,_ how have you tolerated my childishness all these years?"

Bossuet laughs, stroking his hair. "Because it was yours. Ah, Jehan, have you any idea how fond of you I am? Even at your most vexatious."

"You're mad," chiding him. "I swear to you, I won't do anything if I know it upsets you," a kiss on the cheek. "Oh, Théo, how did I never know how lucky I was?"

"Not so very lucky," amused. "Not half as lucky as I am."

Jehan blushes again. "If I were as good as I ought to be, then you would be lucky, perhaps, but I have not been half so good to you as what you deserve."

"Sweet one." Bossuet kisses his cheek. "Come sit with me."

Jehan sits beside him on the bed, running one hand across his shoulders and back again. "Dearest Théo. Are you enough of a fool to trust my word -- when I have been cruel enough to give it and break it many a time, when I should never have been thoughtless to you?"

"Quite that much of one," comfortably. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Oh, love," as if the words hurt him. "You have always been too good to me."

Bossuet caresses his arm. "Not at all."

"I have always been too terrible to you."

Bossuet grins. "Not at all."

Jehan frowns. "Often. Too often."

"If you say so," kissing his cheek.

Jehan sighs and nuzzles his shoulder. "I can't convince you, can I?"

"I love you," Bossuet says simply.

"And I love you." Jehan kisses his cheek. "I feel that I owe you some sort of penance, some great and lasting act of penitence to prove to you that I am not as young as I was, I will do my utmost not to hurt you again -- and yet I don't know what you would accept."

"My dear man, you owe me nothing of the sort," returning the kiss. "I'll happily take your word, if you like."

Jehan makes a small unhappy noise. "You're too forgiving."

Bossuet laughs gently. "We all have our faults, _chéri_."

Jehan shakes his shoulder a little. "I won't impose on your goodwill. I won't."

"All right, love," soothingly.

Bossuet ruffles his hair. "Don't fret so, _petit._ "

"Don't fret so little," Jehan says, poking him in the side.

"Ouch. Fretting never did anyone any good."

"You've never tried," fondly. "How would you know?"

Bossuet shrugs, burying a kiss in Jehan's hair.

Jehan tugs him closer. "Beloved."

Bossuet rubs his back lightly. "Dearest."

"I've been terrible to you," with teary contrition.

A small chuckle. "Very rarely terrible. Exasperating, sometimes, but no worse than that."

"Do stop," Jehan says, thumping his shoulder. "I can't apologize properly if you keep pretending I've nothing to apologize for."

Bossuet laughs outright. "All right. All right. Shall I sulk and be difficult?"

"If you like." Jehan wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "It's nothing more than I deserve."

"Ah, my love." Bossuet puts out a finger to catch a stray tear. "Don't you know I'd forgive you anything?"

"Yes, but -- but perhaps you shouldn't."

"Perhaps." He smiles crookedly. "I mostly think it's better to forgive than not."

Jehan kisses him lightly. "Dearest."

Bossuet kisses him back. " _Chéri_. It's all right."

Jehan strokes his shoulder. "Would you like to move in with me?"

"I would like that very much," smiling at him.

"Oh, good." Jehan kisses him again.

Bossuet pulls him close.

"Dearest," once they pause for breath. "I will never do anything to hurt you, never, my love. I will deserve you. I promise."

"All right," caressing his hair.

"Five years ago --" Jehan kisses him again.

"Hm?"

"It's been five years since you first kissed me. To the day." Jehan touches his cheek lightly. "It seems five minutes."

"It seems forever." Bossuet kisses his forehead, smiling. "I can't imagine life without you, you know."

Jehan bites his lip. "God, Théo."

"What?"

Jehan attempts to blink away tears. "You are so sweet."

Bossuet chuckles. "No more than you."

Jehan looks away. "If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?" There is a catch in his voice.

Bossuet gazes at him gently for a moment, then reaches out and touches a finger to his lips. "I have everything I want."

Jehan melts into his arms, murmuring his name again.

"My Jehan," tenderly. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," although there are tears on his cheeks again.

"God, I love you so."

"And I you," fervently.

"Don't worry," softly. "Please."

"I'll try not to." Jehan kisses his cheek.

Bossuet smiles, and kisses him properly.

Jehan relaxes into his arms with a small sigh.

"You're so lovely," Bossuet breathes against his ear.

Jehan shivers. "You're so good to me."

"I try," mildly.

"You succeed," taking hold of the back of his jacket.

"Good," tangling a hand in his hair.

"You're wonderful," breathlessly.

Bossuet laughs. "So are you, _petit._ So are you."


	49. Balance (Combeferre): October, 1831

I mentioned the idea to Aimery perhaps a year before I ever broached the subject with Julien. I had learned from the incident with Jehan -- it would have been reckless of me to ask him clearly, foolish to surprise him, and idiocy to expect that he would comply. Aimery found the idea attractive, though not, perhaps, as attractive as I thought it was. It may have sounded like yet another adventure to him, uncharted beds, unkissed friends. I mentioned it in a fit of desire and madness, and did not bring it up again for months. When I finally got up the courage to say something, he gave me a crooked smile.

"It'd be great fun."

I sighed. "Yes, but it won't happen."

"True." He kissed me. "It would still be a lot of fun."

I could not explain to him that that was not exactly what I had in mind for the evening's leisure I proposed. Every evening that I spent with Aimery was one that I was not with Julien, and one, perhaps, on which Julien felt slighted and abandoned. If he were to comply with my unlikely scheme by allowing Aimery to share our bed for a night, that would be the best evidence available that he was not angry with me for what he might see as my infidelities. I worried sometimes that he was not as content as he might be, and that I troubled him. There were nights that I spent with Aimery when I wished halfway through that I were home instead, when Julien was sure to be asleep, when he would have been irritated if I woke him and hurt that I had obviously been making love to someone else not an hour beforehand. I had not yet left Aimery's in a fit of guilt, though I had considered it several times.

I was giddy when I asked Julien, overtired and suffering from the effects of too much coffee and too much studying. We were at home; it was perhaps one-o'clock in the morning, and we had burned too many candles that night. It was apropos of nothing. I was making a diagram of the muscles in the shoulder, he was writing an essay on the value of adopting a new calendar when one changes the governmental structure of a country. I interrupted him with my feckless question.

He blushed. "What?"

I asked him again.

"Audric! I don't know. I -- why?"

I grinned at him, too stupid with exhaustion to realize that he could be furious with me. "He's a dear friend, _n'est-ce pas,_ and it would be a most convivial evening."

Julien frowned. "That's not a recommendation."

"No? Perhaps you should spend more time in our Amis' company if you can't recognize the value of friendly relaxation."

He stood and blew out his candles, glaring at me. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll join you. I can't look at this diagram another minute." I snuffed my own candles and slipped into bed beside him, though he had turned on his side. He ignored me when I embraced him. "Beloved, talk to me."

"This is not a game," he said, and his voice was cold.

"Of course it isn't." I stroked his hair, which sometimes mollifies him. He shook his head.

"I'm serious."

"I didn't say otherwise."

He hunched his shoulders. "I don't know how you can blithely ask such things."

"Ah, love." I kissed his ear lightly. "I ask because I know it would be extremely pleasurable on all sides, and it would --" I searched for words for a moment or two. "It would cement our already strong mutual friendship, and reassure all parties that there is no significant amount of jealousy between us."

He turned onto his back, which was progress from my point of view. "Do you honestly think it needs cementing? And if I were significantly jealous," mordantly, "I assure you I would tell you so."

I winced. "I didn't mean that."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I don't know. I'm going to sleep before I get any more ridiculous. Goodnight, _chéri._ "

Julien sighed. "Goodnight."

He did not speak of it again, and neither did I, until several months later, when I came home early one morning from Aimery's. My clothes were somewhat rumpled, and I was in a hurry to get to class on time. I gave Julien a brief smile and then went to my desk and began collecting the books I needed for that day's classes.

"Good morning," Julien said quietly.

"Good morning," I said, but I was too distracted to look at him.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked me, in what was almost, almost a neutral tone.

I stopped sorting through papers and turned to look at him to find out why he sounded odd. "Are you all right?"

Julien shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You sound as though you're upset."

"I didn't sleep well, that's all." He looked under the bed for his boots.

I felt immediately guilty. "I'm sorry, _chéri_. I should have been here."

He shrugged again. "You can do what you like. You know that perfectly well."

I put a hand on his shoulder. There was something insincere about his tone that troubled me. "I don't mean to discomfit you."

"Who said I was discomfited? I just couldn't sleep." Julien looked out the window. "I need to get dressed, Audric."

"I'm sorry," I said again, backing away. "I -- I won't, if you ask me to stop," though, however many times I had told him that, he did not seem to believe me.

Julien sat on the edge of the bed. "So you've said."

"I meant it." I turned back to the desk and arranged a stack of books as he spoke. "I would do almost anything you asked of me, particularly if it would make you happier."

Julien sighed. "It doesn't bother me," he said, a little more slowly and clearly than usual, "that you sleep elsewhere."

I looked over my shoulder at him for a long moment. "But you don't like it. You would rather I didn't. You don't understand why I do."

"What bothers me is that you want to." He looked up. "Are you going to change _that_ at my asking? --I understand perfectly well. Because I don't like it doesn't mean that I don't understand." He went back to lacing his shoes. "Give me a little credit."

"If you understood, I doubt that it would bother you." I frowned. "And -- I don't think that I could stop wanting to, but what would it matter if I wanted to if I said nothing and did nothing to act on that desire?"

"God. Philosophy at half past eight in the morning." He stood. "You'll do what you like. If you'd rather be there than here, I won't keep you. As I've told you God knows how often. --Finish what you were doing, will you? You have to be out of here in half an hour. And fix your damned collar."

"Julien." I held a hand out towards him, tacitly asking for his forgiveness. "If it upsets you that I leave -- and it clearly does -- I..." I bit my lip. "I wish I could explain -- or show you." I had tried to explain before, and had gotten nowhere. If I could only show him what I felt for the two of them, how the affections complimented each other rather than interfering with each other --

"That again?" Julien glanced over, and for a moment his lovely face was cynical. My stomach twisted strangely; I did not understand why he was so upset with me. "If I thought it would content you, I would almost be willing." He turned away again.

I winced and looked at the floor, thinking of another way to explain myself. "I love you. Nothing that happens between me and anyone else changes the fact that I love you, and it doesn't weaken what I feel for you. I wish you could see that I don't do this to hurt you, or to escape from you, or to make up for deficiencies in what we have, because I don't recognize that there is anything lacking in this. Only -- you are not the only person whom I love."

"Clearly. --I'm sick of talking about this. I'll see you tonight, if you aren't occupied." Julien left, not looking back at me, and not quite slamming the door.

I could think of little but him all day. He would forgive me; it was only a rehearsal of an old argument, so well-worn that we knew how it began and how it ended. But I had changed the rules and the context by proposing an adventure of a sort that Julien has never appreciated, and there was a chance, however small, that he would not forgive me. Perhaps he had despaired of me, and decided at last that I was too depraved to be his lover, let alone his friend.

Such speculations tormented me. I brought home a bag of his favorite sort of apples as a peacemaking gesture, and when I arrived home before him, I tidied things up a bit by moving all of the laundry into one corner, and all of the books on the floor into the shelves again. He came in half an hour after I did, and he was more subdued than usual. It worried me; our arguments rarely lasted through a day of classes. I had hoped he would have forgiven me by then.

"There are apples in your desk," I said, by way of greeting. I glanced up from the book I was reading and gave him a tentative smile. "And -- did you have a good day?"

"It went well enough." He did not quite meet my eyes.

"I didn't mean to upset you." I looked away from him. He had rejected my overtures.

He sighed. "I know. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter." I set down the book and stood. "I don't understand why you think it doesn't."

"It was a stupid argument, that's all." He took his coat off and tossed it over the back of a chair. "I'm sorry."

I frowned at the wall. "I hate fighting with you."

"I love you," he said quietly. The knot in my stomach loosened.

I offered him an embrace, which he accepted. "And I love you. I wish we didn't fight about this so very consistently."

He sighed again, and he sounded irritated with me. "So do I."

I kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry. I wish I could explain it all in a way that wouldn't make you angry."

"You don't need to explain it at all." Julien pulled away gently, and something in my chest clenched tight again in fear that he might still be more angry than he seemed. "You know what I think. What you do about it is your own business."

I sighed. "But --"

"What?"

I touched his shoulder and tried to explain again. "If I could make you see this the way I do -- you would know that it hasn't much to do with making love at all." I gave him a tentative smile. "It's friendship, as reliable and strong as any friendship can be -- which is why it distresses me so when you are upset. Aimery is my friend, as much as you are, not in any way that could replace you, but close to my heart nevertheless. I wish you could feel as beloved, as confident as I do -- when you are not upset with me, and when I know, utterly and implicitly, how much you both love me."

He looked at the floor, either upset with me or chagrined. I could not tell which. He said, "You were right. I don't understand."

I kissed his forehead. "Beloved, there was no reason you should unless I managed to explain, which I have not done well. I have tried, in my poor way, to make you feel loved, to find people who would care about you and support you in what you need to do." I touched his hair, which he would not have allowed if he were still angry with me. "I fear I've done better at finding myself friends, and that was not entirely my intent. I wish that I could show you how strong I feel when I know I am loved." He embraced me. The pressure of fear eased in my chest. "I love you."

"And I love you. You know that!" He was vexed, but more with himself than me, it seemed.

"Yes, I know." I kissed his cheek.

He kissed me back, pulling me close to him. "Sometimes I think I've never understood anything."

I ran my fingers through his hair and said in a soothing tone, "I'm sure you understand a great deal, love."

"Don't." He pushed at my shoulders, startling me. "Don't humor me."

It took me a moment to respond. "I'm not humoring you. You understand intricacies of law better than I ever could. If you do not understand intricacies of friendship and love, then perhaps you will let me explain, or show you."

There were tears in Julien's eyes that had not been there a moment before. "You do. Every day."

"Oh --" I felt my throat close a little with sympathetic emotion, and I kissed him lightly. "Beloved."

" _Je t'aime,_ " he whispered. I embraced him, and he sighed into my shoulder.

I asked, "What's the matter, _chéri?_ "

"Nothing." He kissed me again, and I understood. Whatever irritation he felt had gone; the argument was over.

We made love, hiding all the while from the chilly autumnal air. Though I held him close, he pulled me closer. I did not realize until then how much I had distressed him, and that, though my nights with Aimery made me feel balanced and safe, they made Julien feel that I might leave him without warning. I tried to show him again how much I cared for him, and if kisses and caresses could show him anything, perhaps I succeeded. But I had kissed him and whispered adoring words to him many a time, and he still did not trust that I would not leave him. He would not force me to stay; I would not give up Aimery's company unless Julien asked me to do so. I needed to reassure him another way.

Afterward, when we were still pressed together, holding each other rather more tightly than usual, I kissed his cheek. "I would like to show you what I see in -- in the nights we do not spend together."

He gave me a somewhat dazed look. "What?"

I kissed him again. "Let me -- let us show you. Please?" 

Julien blinked and looked away for a moment. I bit my lip, hoping against all evidence that he would have changed his mind. Then he said softly, "All right."

I smiled, perhaps a little too brightly, and embraced him. "It should be splendid, my love. I promise you that."

It did not take nearly as long to organize the event itself as it did to convince Julien that it might be an interesting way to spend the evening. When I told Aimery, he laughed. "It would be lovely, if you could convince him."

"No -- I have."

He blinked, then grinned. "Have you, now. Did you have a day in mind?"

I kissed his cheek. "Saturday, probably."

"All right." He shook his head in disbelief. "I don't think I want to know how you convinced him."

I smiled. "Carefully. Gently. I'm not entirely sure."

"Fair enough."

"But --" I frowned. "I think it would be better if you didn't tell the others?"

"Oh?"

I knew, too well for my own comfort, that the sort of evening that we planned was a common pastime among our fellows, and I doubted that any of them would think less of Julien or myself for participating, but it was better to be safe. "I don't mean that we should lie," I said, choosing the phrases carefully. "I would rather that they didn't know. That's all."

Aimery gave me a bland look for a moment and shrugged. "All right."

Although he had been somewhat doubtful, he did as I asked. On Saturday, after the meeting at the Café Musain, Julien and I walked home together. Aimery joined us a few minutes later, so as not to seem as though he was accompanying us.

It was heaven to hold them both in my arms, and be held by them. It eased something in me that I had not known was tense. My dear friends, my sweet lovers -- I felt as though I had come home from a long journey. That feeling only grew as the evening progressed.

And seeing them embracing -- Julien pale and fair, his features so finely sculpted, and Aimery with his dark curls and a mischievious curve to his lips, just before he kissed Julien -- it was enough to make my heart skip. Julien is beautiful, and Aimery is handsome. Together, they are painfully lovely. If I had not been able to insinuate myself into their embrace, I would have had to look away from them or look for a sketchpad to capture the perfect loveliness of the way they looked together.

They did not object when I touched Aimery's arm and kissed him lightly, though my intrusion marred the beauty of the moment. My only regret was that I could not kiss them both at once, a mad regret, perhaps, but still one that I felt keenly, as though I were denying them something they expected. They were less patient than I was -- Julien from nervousness, perhaps, and Aimery from the eagerness that I often find so charming in him. Julien pulled me toward the bed sooner than I expected, and Aimery began to undress me.

I had worried that Julien would decide, five minutes into it, that it was truly immoral and that he could not bear to be a part of such proceedings, but even he seemed susceptible to Aimery's charms. Perhaps he does not think much of pleasure in the abstract, or even in the particular, for he has chided me before for preferring to make love rather than spend all of my energy on more substantial pursuits, but that night was different.

It was a cold night, but three bodies under two blankets make a great deal of heat. They began by undressing me, and between Aimery's deft fingers on my shirt buttons and Julien's practiced touch on my trousers, they were finished with the job more quickly than I could have done it alone. I clasped Julien's hand for a moment before I began helping Aimery out of his clothing. Julien shifted over to help, and Aimery kissed him. I paused to watch them. Aimery chided me, "You'll never be done at that rate."

"All in good time," I said lightly. He kissed me, but that was more familiar than watching them together, and I did not stop. Julien and I did not take terribly long to get Aimery's clothing off of him and onto the floor. Before I started undressing Julien, in his turn, I kissed him thoroughly -- to reassure him, to encourage him. His eyes were wide afterward, more than a little frightened.

Aimery reached past me and touched his cheek. "I'll go, if you want." I tensed. It was an improbably noble offer for him to make while he was naked in our bed. If Julien accepted, it would be over, and I would feel guiltier than ever for having tried to talk him into something he found unpleasant.

But he sat up and leaned past me to kiss Aimery with the same passion he had had for me a moment before. I sighed in relief and appreciation. I clasped Aimery's shoulder, hoping that that would convey my thankfulness. I could not have asked what he did, for fear that Julien would have been uncertain but willing to go along with things unless he were given a chance to refuse. It reassured me to know that we had his explicit permission.

When they broke the kiss, both a little dazed, their eyes not entirely focusing, I took the opportunity to kiss Julien again. He has always made it more than a little difficult for me to concentrate while making love with him -- he is so lovely, and far more responsive than most people, even our friends, would guess. I was thinking even less clearly than usual with Aimery pressed against my bare back; it was difficult for me to unbutton buttons and kiss Julien at the same time.

I could not have explained to them how it felt to lie between them, skin to skin, arms around each other and breathing the same air. Julien's willingness to go through with this mean a great deal to me. It was my forgiveness for every night I had ever dallied with Aimery, for loving someone else, even for daring to ask if Aimery could share our bed. I could have fallen asleep, perfectly at peace between them, except that I was aroused by their presences, and all the more so now that we were all naked. Julien shifted a little, and in that moment, I felt as though I had begun a new romance with them, but with them together instead of having separate love affairs, one with each of them.

I felt sure that Julien, however many concessions he had made that night, would not be glad of any more outrageous suggestions on my part. I fell silent. They sat up and kissed, lingering. Aimery ran his hand down my chest. "And dear Audric," he said to Julien, as though they had been conversing, "shall we make love to him?"

Julien blushed. I wondered if I should have warned Aimery to be careful what he said, but surely he knew how delicate Julien's sensibilities could be. But he looked up and said, "Isn't that why you're here?"

Aimery chuckled and kissed him again until they were both out of breath. "I think we should, then," he said afterward.

I did not want to begin anything; I was sure that I would have known what Julien wanted if we were alone, but this was not a situation in which I had any experience with his desires or responses. He did not seem to know for a moment, but for the first time that evening, I did not worry whether his hesitation was the beginning of rejection. He put his hand on my chest for a moment and gave me a sternly appraising look, as though I were not his lover. He turned away and rummaged under the bed. I felt Aimery chuckle, ever so softly, but I was most surprised.

I was not expecting what Julien offered when he turned to face me and gently guided my hand between his legs. That was how he preferred to ask for things while we were in bed: a light touch on my wrist, tangling his fingers in my hair, trailing one hand over the small of my back. I had never mastered the art of tacit requests, but when I asked him in words, he was nearly always embarrassed. This particular request was also somewhat unusual. When he handed me the cold bottle, I was sure of what he meant, but it was not something he wanted very often. Perhaps it felt more unnatural than other acts, because it required more than just our bodies, or perhaps it made him feel too vulnerable, or perhaps it seemed effeminate to him. I had never asked where his reluctance came from; it upset him enough when I asked him how he would like to spend the evening without my inquiring why some acts were taboo.

It was a great gift to be allowed to touch him so intimately. He was determined to enjoy this, though the oil was cold at first and made him gasp. I murmured to him that I loved him, and I kissed him. I was lost in the joy of touching him; I hardly realized when Aimery took the bottle from me, and I did not know why he did it, at first.

He seemed to have taken his cue from Julien's quiet. He generally asked for permission, or inquired what my preference was of a particular evening, but that night he pressed a cold finger inside me and made me shiver in Julien's arms. Julien blinked. I explained, "Aimery."

"What, chéri?" Aimery asked. He thrust another finger into me, and it was shockingly cold for a moment.

I bit my lip to prevent myself from crying out or overreacting and surprising Julien. "You're both wonderful." It was supremely intimate to be between them as I was then, with Julien allowing that unwonted act and the familiar pressure of Aimery's fingers inside me. I could not quite concentrate hard enough to synchronize my movements with Aimery's, but when Julien turned his face away from me for a moment to stifle a moan in the pillow, I knew with certainty how much it had affected him. I kissed him gently, determined not to rush him, though he did not seem pleased at my careful pace.

Aimery said softly, "God, you're lovely," as though he knew I had been thinking the same of them before and was returning the compliment.

I withdrew my fingers from Julien's body. He sighed and gave me a wide-eyed look; he still wanted what he had offered me. Perhaps he did not want it as badly as I did, but that was no great surprise. He said, "Please," and his voice was more of a sigh than anything.

I looked away from him for a moment to find Aimery's wrist. "Aimé -- I need --" I wanted him inside me, but I could not say that. It would have bothered Julien. But Aimery knew what I meant. He handed me the bottle first. Applying the cold oil to myself cooled a fraction of my ardor. For a moment, I knew something more than the heat of wanting them. " _Je vous aime,_ " I said.

Aimery squeezed my shoulder; Julien kissed my cheek. They clasped each other's hands and Julien gave him a look that was so sweet that it would have pained me if I had not been pressed between them close enough to feel them both breathing. I shivered, more from emotion than from cold. Julien kissed me and said, "Please," again, softly. I granted his request -- with a certain amount of caution. He was less used to such things than I was. He trembled a little and kissed me again. If it had been any other night, I would have stopped when he shivered and asked him if he was certain that he could enjoy what we were doing. I might have asked him then, but Aimery nibbled on my ear.

"I'm at a disadvantage," he said softly. He was behind me; Julien and I were both on our sides, making room for three in the bed. He asked me, "Will you let me do this?" I wanted him to very badly, and after a bit of rearranging Julien and I both found the right places to put our legs, and Aimery thrust inside me. I had meant to be careful with Julien, but I could not think well enough to calm my movements.

I was lost between them, filled with one and buried in the other. Every movement, however small, was rapturous. I felt as though my skin had disappeared and I was nothing but sensation. It seemed for a few delirious moments that I hardly existed, that I was nothing but the heat and desire between them. I must have said something in the midst of it, I must have made some noise, but I cannot remember anything but a sense of perfect balance. They were my heart and my soul, my dearest friends, and for a night I had them, and it was perfect.

I had less endurance in that delightful situation than I would have liked, but then I would have liked for it to go on all night, and that would never have happened. I cried out at last, and Julien kissed me. I caressed him as tenderly as I could, making a belated, dazed apology, making him sigh against my lips. "So beautiful," Aimery breathed, and after a few moments he, too, stopped moving.

The peculiar illusion of being bodiless while my body was deliciously content persisted for several minutes before Julien had to move. We disentangled ourselves and he made a distasteful noise. "We should bathe, but it isn't warm enough."

"We can clean up, at least," I said. He was right about the bath, but I did not have the courage to get out of the warm bed and face a tub of tepid water. Julien got up, moving smoothly enough that I was sure I had not hurt him, and fetched himself a shirt. He wet a washcloth in the pitcher that we kept by the window and winced at the cold.

Aimery moved away from me with a sigh. "That looks like a good idea." He kissed my shoulder. "Are you getting up?"

"In a minute. Julien, would you bring me a shirt?"

"Of course." He found the shirts that Aimery and I had been wearing earlier and brought them over.

I caught his wrist as he gave me mine and kissed the back of his hand. " _Je t'aime._ " He gave me a brief, uncomfortable smile and handed me a relatively clean washcloth. I put on the shirt and got up, then put the washcloth to good use. 

Aimery pulled on his shirt, then got up and embraced Julien. "Thank you, _mon frère._ That was lovely."

"I suppose so." Julien looked away from him. "Do you have anywhere to be in the morning?"

"Not at all."

"Would you spend the night?"

Aimery smiled. "Gladly."

I embraced them both. The pitiful washcloth was on the laundry pile; I had dried my hands on my shirt. "It's cold, _mes aimés._ Shall we go back to bed?"

Julien pulled away to blow out the candles. "Let's do that."

I slept more soundly that night than I had slept for a long while, especially on nights I spent in Aimery's embrace. But that night, it was all right. Julien had forgiven me. I felt shriven, washed clean of any taint of betrayal, and above all, I felt loved.


	50. Reassurance: October, 1831

In the morning, no one says much of anything and everything is awkward until Aimery has dressed and left. Audric has something of a nervous smile, as though he is cheerful but unwilling to show it too clearly. He sits in his chair and pretends to read for a little while before he looks up and asks, hesitantly, "That wasn't awful?"

Julien is quiet for a minute, while he finishes getting dressed. "...No."

Audric nods. "All right. Good." He looks at the book again, but his smile relaxes into a grin.

"I don't--" Julien begins, and breaks off, turning away to tug the bedclothes into some semblance of order.

Audric looks up again, frowning. "What? What's wrong?"

Julien is blushing rather vividly. "Don't think we should make a habit of it, that's all."

Audric blushes, too. "I wasn't going to suggest that. But --" he bites his lip. "But it wasn't unpleasant?"

"No," in an uncharacteristic undertone.

"All right," again, doubtfully. "I mean -- I didn't think it was terrible, but I didn't -- didn't know what you'd think."

"I know what you thought." On another morning, it might be sharp, but today is different; Julien's tone is mild, even, perhaps, amused. "It was fairly evident."

Audric blushes again. "I'm sorry."

Julien turns, catches his arms, kisses him lingeringly. "Why?"

"Oh --" It takes a moment for him to come up with the right words. "Because -- I was afraid you were uncomfortable. I -- all right." He stands and embraces Julien. "Thank you, beloved."

"Only in spots." Julien has never been one to smile easily, and less so of late; he does not smile now, but there is decided warmth in his eyes, when he pulls back to look at Audric. "It's all right, love."

Audric touches his cheek lightly. "God, you're beautiful when you're happy." And before Julien can object to this, he kisses him.

Julien's laughter gets lost in the kiss. His fingers tangle gently in Audric's hair.

Audric breaks the kiss after a long interval and sighs happily. "You're wonderful."

"I am not," but it's idle, more from habit than irritation. Certainly he does not pull away.

Audric strokes his hair. "I have evidence to support my claim, _chéri_."

Julien leans on his shoulder for a minute. "Nonsense."

"And a witness," softly.

"Audric!" hiding his face.

"I'm sorry," immediately. "Forgive me."

"You have no shame," but Julien softens this judgment with another kiss.

"I --" He finishes the apology several moments after it began. "I'm sorry. I won't tease you about it anymore. I won't mention it, I promise." Audric looks away from him.

"I just--" Julien has gone scarlet again. "As long as you don't mention it to -- to other people."

Audric's fingers tighten on his sleeve. "I said I won't mention it, and I won't."

Julien embraces him again. "Don't be upset with me today."

"I'm not," Audric mumbles. "That's the last thing I am. I just -- I don't want you to regret it. At all."

"I don't," Julien admits after a moment.

"If you're sure --"

"I'm sure," kissing him again. "I-- yes."

"But --" still a little tentatively, but less as though Julien is about to scream, "you don't want to make a habit of it."

Julien gives him a faintly irked glance. "No. That doesn't mean I--" he falters.

Audric touches his hair. "That you what?" gently.

"Minded," somewhat muffled in Audric's shirt.

" _Chéri_ \--" Audric sighs.

"Mm?"

"I love you," after a pause that suggests that might not have been his original thought.

"I love you, too." Julien settles closer.

"Thank you."

"Surely you knew that," amused again.

"Yes. But you knew what I meant. -- Come to bed with me, love."

"Audric," Julien protests, but, improbably, he is laughing again. "We just got up."

"I know, but I want to hold you."

"Aren't you?" teasing.

"Yes, but in ten minutes I'll want to let you go unless we lie down. Please?"

Julien kisses him. "All right."

Audric lets him go very briefly. "Besides, I doubt I could convince you to take your shirt off unless we went to bed."

Julien colors. "No. It's too cold for that." He sits on the edge of the bed.

"I know," helping him with the buttons. "But -- but that's what blankets are for."

"I suppose so," returning the favor.

Audric kisses his neck lightly. "You never cease to amaze me."

Julien shivers. "For heaven's sake. What have I done now?"

Audric beams at him. "You've forgotten so soon?"

" _Audric_." But his hands are under Audric's shirt, caressing, and he does not sound particularly outraged.

"Not -- oh, God, love. Not that, really -- just that you let it happen."

"Was lovely," Julien confesses, breathless, against his shoulder.

"Really?" with the joy of a small boy just told he's going to get his very own pony for Christmas.

He nods, and attempts to cover his embarrassment with a flurry of kisses.

Audric fouls this plan somewhat with a constant murmur of endearments. After a few moments, he embraces Julien. "Bedclothes, dearest."

"All right," fuzzily.

Once they are situated in a manner that prevents goosebumps, Audric spends a little more time grinning at Julien.

Julien buries his face in the pillow. "Don't look so smug."

"Oh, was that what I was doing? I was attempting something more like overwhelmingly in love."

"I love you, too." He slides an arm around Audric's waist.

Audric embraces him. "I know. Believe me, I know."


	51. Ambush (Prouvaire): November, 1831

"Please, Audric," I said, and took his hand. He pushed me away, as he always, always did, his normally pacific face creased into a frown.

"No, Jehan."

And again I touched his shoulder. "Whyever not?"

"Julien."

I laughed. "Julien doesn't give a damn where you sleep."

"He does," Audric said stubbornly, and left the caf&eacute: as quickly as he could. I did not follow him, only watched him go: stalwart, dependable, gentle Combeferre, whose every gesture for the last month had screamed of frustration. This was not a fancy, nor was I the first to remark on it; with Aimery abroad and Julien -- Julien, we could all see the repressed desire in our friend and colleague.

The next night, I decided to shock him out of his daze. With Christophe's assistance and Théo's compliance in buying the poor man drinks, I met him in the dark passageway behind the Corinthe shortly before one in the morning. "Bonsoir," I said to him, and he turned to stare at me. Perhaps Théo had been slightly overenthusiastic, for he wavered a moment before he recognized me.

"You've gone mad again," he said, his voice thick and bemused.

"Do you think I'm mad?" I asked him, and I embraced him.

He blinked down at me, then touched my cheek. "Sometimes, _mon cher_ , I'm sure of it."

I kissed him lightly and grew dizzy from the alcohol that lingered on his breath and the passion that inflamed him at that slight touch. He clung to me, crushing our mouths together, and tangled my careful curls with desperate fingers. I felt him give in to me, if only a little, and then, with every particle of coquette I could summon, I pushed him away, kissing him all the while. "Not here, my dearest, not here." There was a lodging house nearby that asked no questions at all. They must have thought me a whore with a stumbling, drunken client; how they would have laughed if they had known my only payment was to be his pleasure.

When we reached our tiny room, he kissed me again and pulled me close, murmuring, "Jehan, please," in my ear. I could not have denied him then even if I had planned to abandon him. It was simple enough to tug up my skirts for him -- he fumbled with the petticoats so clumsily that I was sure he had never dealt with them before -- and let his soft, warm weight bear me backward onto the bed.

But even in the vertiginous haste, he was Audric; I could not erase that infinite concern even by hooking a leg around his waist and tugging him close. He touched me gently and asked, "Am I going to hurt you?"

"No. God, no." I put an arm around his shoulders and kissed him. "Do you think I am such a fool I would seduce you unprepared?"

Even in the moonlight, I could see him blush. "Jehan --"

"Stop thinking," I demanded, and kissed him again. It drew up his courage, and he pressed into me, sighing. I whimpered for him -- perhaps an act, perhaps Jeannette's reaction to this new lover, or perhaps my long-denied affection for him bubbling forth, as young as the day he first kissed me. How many times had I pictured this very scene, his strong hand closing about me as he kissed my neck?

The immediate lightning arousal of the Corinthe had left him, or he had pushed it aside, preferring instead to slow himself and be as careful as if I were still virgin under his hands. Within minutes, my half-staged whimpers had changed to murmurs of "More," and "Please," which he brushed aside.

"Don't worry, Jehan," he said, and kissed me gently, pulling away when I would have deepened the kiss. He stopped moving with a great conscious effort and only teased me, too slowly, too lightly. "I would never hurt you."

"Move, damn you." I tried to force the issue, but he shifted his weight and effectively pinned me. I had forgotten how considerable he was, and there was little to remind me. He had not even taken off his pants, let alone his shirt.

"It's all right," he assured me, running his fingers through my hair.

"It is not!" I clung to his shoulders, bit his lip, writhed, and reached up to pull him close. "You'll drive me mad."

He smiled at me in the darkness and began to move again, taking pity on me or on himself. "You'll be fine."

"God, Audric, harder." I am sure I said it twenty times, and he heeded none of it, as if I were truly only there for him and not myself.

I was on the brink of tears with frustration when he pulled away and I wailed. "Shh, _cher_. Turn over?" He was no longer calm, and his hands shook a little as he helped me. When I had settled on my knees, my skirts around my waist and my hands well-braced, he began again in earnest. I felt every slick inch of him as he slid into me, and I pushed back against him with all the eagerness that he had not let me display. I heard him talking to me -- broken, far off, too distant to understand more than the occasional word: beautiful, insane, God, desired. I was past words with the surrounding heat of his hand and the pressure of him inside me, finally at just the right pace, just the right place to send me shuddering into climax.

After I knew only that he was saying something, my name, and thrusting still, clinging to my hips, until he found his own release and relaxed, regaining himself. Almost as soon as his breath had evened, he said, "I must go home."

I had known it was coming, and that he would reject me as soon as a modicum of sanity returned, but it still stung to be flung aside so casually by a man still softening inside me. "So soon?"

"Jehan --" He kissed my cheek when I turned to look at him, then pulled away. "He'll be waiting for me."

"Are you so easily satisfied?" I smiled at him with all the challenge I could muster. "Why, I remember nights when you could hardly sleep after thrice that."

Audric stood up, frowning at me. "You exaggerate."

"Sometimes, but not this time." I tugged off my bottom petticoat -- a potential embarrassment and too cheap to bother washing -- and stood. "You have not grown so old as that, dear friend."

"Perhaps my conscience has grown." He kissed me on the cheek, briskly. "Thank you."

"It was lovely," I told him, letting him hear the wistfulness in my tone. He did not need to know how many years I had desired more from him than he was willing to give, but he should at least understand that I did not want him to leave.

"Yes. It was." He reached for his hat, fallen off in the earlier madness.

I bit my lip. "Perhaps some other time --?"

"I doubt it, Jehan."

"At least walk me home," I demanded, taking hold of his arm.

He blinked at me and seemed to remember my dress. "Of course."

It was not enough, but it would do. "Thank you, _chéri._ " And we started for my flat, ignoring the prying eyes of the lodging house's other patrons.


	52. Changeable: December, 1831

One evening when the breezes whistle in the windows, Jehan accosts Aimery before the crowd arrives. "Come and sit with me, _cher_. I want to talk to you."

Aimery kisses his cheek. "If you like," amiably.

Jehan smiles. "Please?"

"All right, I said."

Jehan walks off to an empty table.

Aimery ruffles his hair, before sliding into a seat across from him. "What's on your mind, petit?"

Jehan grins and gets up to sit next to him. "I was thinking about that adventure the other week."

Aimery smiles at him. "Oh?"

"It was lovely, wasn't it?"

"I thought so," amused.

"So did Daniel." Jehan nuzzles his shoulder.

Aimery grins quietly. "Seems so."

"Have you ever considered --"

"Hmm?" Aimery takes one slender hand in his and kisses it fleetingly.

Jehan chuckles. "You would not look so terrible in skirts."

The gray eyes widen. "You're joking."

"Am I?" Jehan traces the line of his cheekbone with one finger. "I didn't think so. You could carry it off, if you were inclined. No pumps, of course, but still."

" _Mon Dieu._ " Aimery blinks, then laughs a little. "What an idea." 

"It serves a purpose, does it not?"

Aimery glances down at the table with a curious expression, caught midway between unease, interest and calculation. "It might."

Jehan tousles his hair. "I expect Daniel would find the prospect intriguing."

Aimery ducks reflexively. "Might, at that."

"He was more than enthusiastic before," mildly.

"True. But--"

"But what?"

"I don't know." Aimery drums his fingers on the table, lost in thought for a minute. Then thought turns his cheeks red, and he laughs a little, burying his face in one hand. "God, you're terrible, _petit._ "

Jehan beams. "I know."

Aimery pokes him in the arm. "You just want to see me make a fool of myself, don't you?"

"No -- I -- I broke your rules, didn't I?"

Aimery directs a look at a point somewhere between the wall and the ceiling. "Daniel's rules."

Jehan kisses his cheek. "I know, but you have to live by them, so they're yours, too."

A small grin. "Anyway, I didn't hear anyone complaining."

"I suppose not. But still. My point remains -- it would be interesting."

Aimery laughs again, that odd awkward laughter. "I suppose it would. Yes."

"I'd help, if you liked."

"You'd have to." Aimery grins lopsidedly. "I have no natural aptitude."

"You've not tried, yet. You'll do fine."

"You talk as if the thing were settled."

Jehan grins. "Isn't it?"

Aimery sighs. "If I asked him beforehand-- I could come over and, er, discuss the matter with you."

"You'll embarrass him," mildly.

"Well I'm not going to tell him what we're doing. Only what we're not, as it were."

"Ah. Well, that makes sense."

Aimery shakes his head. "God."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just-- good Lord, Jehan, what have you done?"

Jehan does his very best innocent look. "Nothing, yet."

Aimery laughs, and tugs him close in a one-armed, mostly fraternal hug. "Wretch."

"Only sometimes." Jehan kisses his cheek.

"Often enough." Aimery lets him go, leaning back in his chair. "God."

The door opens and Daniel enters, a book under his arm.

Jehan grins. "What timing."

"Evening, _chéri_." Aimery stretches out an arm to Daniel, smiling.

Daniel nods to Jehan and takes a seat by Aimery. "Good evening."

Aimery leans over to kiss his cheek. "How are you?"

"I'm quite all right. How are you?"

"Good evening, Daniel," Jehan says lightly. "Ah -- here's Theo. I'll see you around, then." He pats Aimery's shoulder and gets up.

"Until later." Aimery watches him go, then turns back to Daniel cheerfully.

Daniel asks, "Did you have a good day?"

"It went well enough," nuzzling his shoulder affectionately.

"It's good to see you, too," amused.

"Is it? Ah, good."

Daniel kisses his cheek.

Aimery settles against him, in the comfortable, nearly unconscious way that Aimery has. "I was wondering."

"What were you wondering?"

"Will you mind very much if I go over to Jehan's for a few nights this week? We're working on something."

Daniel blinks. "I suppose not. Will you tell me what you're working on eventually?"

Aimery gives him that swoon-inducing smile. "Of course, _cher_."

"All right." Daniel smiles back.

"Splendid." Aimery kisses him properly, just barely before the door opens again and admits Julien and Audric.

* * * * *

It is rather closer to two weeks, in the end, that Courfeyrac spends going back and forth between his lodgings and Prouvaire's. To do him credit, when Daniel complains once or twice, he stays home for the evening to console him, but most of the time he seems preoccupied, if pleased with himself. 

On a Saturday night, when Daniel lets himself in, he finds a fire kindled and the door to the little bedroom ajar. He blinks and calls, "Good evening, _chéri_."

"There you are," says a petulant and not entirely familiar voice from within. "I've been waiting half an hour."

"Are you quite all right?" He pauses to take off his jacket and hat and hang them up.

"I suppose."

"You suppose?" Daniel frowns.

A chuckle. No-- a giggle. "As well as can be expected. Aren't you going to come and kiss me?"

"Just a moment," although when he pushes the bedroom door open farther, he nearly falls over. "God, what have you done?" Daniel seems torn between laughter and fear.

The person on the bed, charmingly got up in frilly blue skirts, auburn curls in a tumble, regards him with coquettish indignation. "I haven't done anything yet. I haven't had the chance."

Daniel rubs his eyes and begins laughing in earnest. "Aimé, you're completely mad. You do know that?"

"I've never denied it," mildly, dropping the flirtatious trill. "Is it that bad, then?"

"You're beautiful," using the feminine form. "Come and kiss me."

Aimery looks at him a moment, then complies, with a hesitation that passes for shyness.

Daniel takes his hand and kisses it lightly. "Enchanté. God, you are enchanting." With a rather confused smile, he hugs Aimery.

Aimery settles into his arms, head against his shoulder. "You're too kind."

"No, _chérie_ ," touching his curls almost reverently. "All this trouble -- all those nights, what, picking a shade of rouge with Jehan --" he begins laughing again. "For me, love?"

Again the almost-giggle. "Who else?"

Daniel buries his face in Aimery's shoulder and doesn't answer.

Aimery kisses his cheek. "Not for Audric's benefit, I can tell you that. There are easier ways to get shouted at."

"Mm."

"Is it all right?" rather timidly.

"It seems a great deal of trouble to go to for me," and he keeps his voice almost even.

"I thought you'd like--" The voice in his ear tilts over the line from anxious girl to crestfallen boy. "I'm sorry."

Daniel kisses him desperately.

Aimery clings to him, one hand knotting in the back of his shirt.

Daniel runs a hand down his side. When at last they need to breathe, "Beautiful, beautiful -- like it, how could I like it? Do you know -- do you really know what it does to me, to see you like this -- it's more than, than liking it, or no."

Aimery touches his cheek lightly. "Beloved-- come sit down."

Daniel laughs again. "All right, all right. Do you know --"

"What, _cher_?"

Daniel sits down and holds out a hand to him. "How many times did I think how easy everything would be if only, if only this were the way of things?"

Aimery settles on the edge of the bed, embracing him again, and says nothing.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Daniel pulls him closer. "God, what a lot of lies I told myself."

"It's all right," stroking his hair. "It's all right, _cher_."

Daniel puts a hand on his thigh. "Let me know it's a lie," desperately. "I am too in love with you to want this dream except as a dream, and I can't see through it, not yet."

"Oh, Daniel." Aimery kisses him. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean--"

"I love you." Daniel touches his cheek lightly. "You are so handsome, as yourself -- so beautiful like this -- very beautiful. I just --" He lets himself slide off the bed and sits on the floor. "I love you."

"I love you too." Aimery is uncharacteristically awkward, of a sudden. "You know that. I-- I didn't-- I'm sorry, just give me five minutes and I'll be out of this, I--"

"It's all right, it's all right." Daniel kisses his knee through the skirts. "Just -- I keep thinking it's real. I can't bear to think that. Please --" and he makes a rather out-of-practice attempt at moving a large amount of skirt fabric out of the way.

But Aimery catches at his hands and holds them, tense and stricken, his head bowed. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry."

Daniel sighs. "And still I wish it were true, though that betrays us both. I'm sorry. I thought I knew better."

Aimery is trembling slightly. "I meant-- I only meant to make you laugh, and-- God-- you've done so much for my sake, I thought, couldn't I do this for you? I should have thought. I should-- I'm sorry."

Daniel sits next to him again. "It's all right," he says softly, though there are tears in his eyes. "I just -- I will love you, always, even though I know -- I know this can't really last that long. I wish --" he breaks off and hugs Aimery tightly.

"Beloved." Aimery clings to him as tightly, stroking his back.

"Lie to me a little," softly. "Swear you'll never leave me."

"Never. Oh, God, never."

Daniel buries his face in Aimery's shoulder.

Aimery kisses his hair. "I'm sorry," again, in the flat tone of suppressed emotion.

"Are you all right?" in a rather choked voice.

A deep breath. "I am if you'll forgive me."

"It's all right." Daniel sighs. "I -- I'm overreacting."

Aimery strokes his shoulders soothingly. "I didn't think."

"I'm being horribly foolish." Daniel takes a deep breath. "You are very beautiful."

Aimery laughs a little. "Thank you. I-- it doesn't matter, you know, if you'd rather not--"

Daniel shrugs. "I don't know." He looks at Aimery's face for the first time in several minutes. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Aimery meets his eyes, briefly unselfconscious. "If you are."

"I don't know," again, more reluctantly. "God, who would have thought such a simple thing could hurt?"

"I didn't mean it to." Aimery touches his cheek briefly, then looks down. "I should-- I should go and change."

"I'm sorry." Daniel kisses his cheek. "I didn't mean to ruin it."

Aimery kisses him soundly. "It's not your fault." He pulls away, standing, and retrieves yesterday's shirt from the back of the chair. "Back in a minute."

Daniel puts his head in his hands.

Aimery hesitates. "Daniel...?"

"I love you. It's --" he swallows. "I'm fine," and this is clearly a lie, and he must know that his voice shakes in the middle.

Aimery hesitates; then tosses the shirt across the bed, and kneels beside him in a rustle of petticoats, reaching for his hand again. "Tell me, love."

"I can't stand to love you this much and remember that it means nothing. That nothing will ever come of it, because of the simplest thing in the world." There are tears on Daniel's cheeks and more coming to join them. "And when it's over, you'll have to forget, and move on."

"Oh, Daniel." Aimery embraces him. "Dearest brother. Never."

"I don't deserve you," softly. "I can't bear the thought of losing you."

"No need to think of it." Aimery kisses his hand. "Beloved-- beloved. Shh."

Daniel shudders and holds his hand so tightly it must hurt his fingers. After a few moments, he relaxes. "Go and change?"

"All right, love." Aimery pats his shoulder, climbs to his feet and goes to do that.

Daniel waits patiently in the bedroom, his head in his hands again.

Presently Aimery comes back in, clad only in his shirt, and goes over to wash his face quickly. "Are you all right?" somewhat subdued.

"More or less." Daniel looks up. "I'm very sorry, love. I spoiled everything."

"I don't care, if you don't. It was a silly idea." Aimery settles beside him again.

Daniel embraces him with a sigh.

Aimery kisses his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Just -- stay with me."

"Of course, beloved."

Daniel nuzzles his shoulder. "I love you."

"And I you." Aimery nuzzles his shoulder. "Don't fret."

"Stay with me, _chéri_ ," as if he is on the verge of leaving.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Daniel sighs again and kisses his cheek.

Aimery smooths his hair. "Everything's all right."

"Sweet, handsome, charming love," softly. "I wish that I could stay with you, always -- but you must, must know that."

Aimery embraces him. " _Chéri_."

"I -- I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Aimery caresses his hair. "It's all right, dearest."

"I am such a fool. Why do you tolerate me?"

"Because I adore you," stroking the back of his neck lightly.

"I have a tendency to make a mess of what ought to be a pleasant evening," wryly.

"It still could be," kissing his cheek. "Forgive me for trying too hard?"

Daniel nods. "Of course."

"All right, then." Aimery kisses him properly.

Daniel sighs and relaxes against him after a bit.

"Sweet brother. Come to bed?"

"All right," without letting him go in the slightest.

So Aimery leans back against the pillow, tugging him along. "My God, you're handsome."

Daniel blushes. "Thank God you think so, beloved."

"I'm not the only one, you know," amused.

"You're the only one who matters."

"Flatterer. Why are you wearing pants?"

"It's too cold outside not to."

"It's not cold in here," Aimery observes, helping him dispose of them.

"Not with you here." Daniel grins at him.

Aimery grins back. "Good."

Daniel kisses him.

Aimery tangles a hand in his hair and returns the kiss.

Daniel slides a hand under his shirt and sighs.

Aimery shivers, running a hand down his spine. "Love."

"Much better."

"Hmm?"

Daniel licks his neck. "You're still you," contentedly.

An untranscribable noise. "So it seems. Do that again."

Daniel does, with an extra nibble for good measure.

"Mmm. God." Aimery gives a pleased shudder, and kisses him again. "Why are you so wonderful?"

"I learned by observing you," cheerfully.

"Observing. Is that what you were doing?"

"Quite carefully," running a hand up his back.

"Lord, what you do to me." Aimery trails kisses across his shoulder.

"Hopefully it's half as wonderful as what you do to me." Daniel grins at him.

Aimery laughs. "Flattery. Let me..." slipping a hand under Daniel's shirt in turn.

Daniel sighs and begins to fight with Aimery's buttons.

"Oh, leave that, darling, it's not in the way--" Aimery kisses him again, bearing him back against the pillows.

Daniel tangles his fingers in Aimery's incongruous ringlets. "It is, though."

"Why?" breathlessly.

"Want to touch you."

"Aren't you?"

"Take your shirt off?" softly.

Aimery laughs. "All right, all right." And does, impatiently.

Daniel sits up a little and take his own off. "You're so handsome."

Aimery chuckles. "You and your compliments."

Daniel holds up his arms, asking for a hug.

Aimery obliges him gladly. "Love you."

" _Je t'adore._ "

Aimery nuzzles the base of his throat, sighing.

Daniel tousles his hair.

"Dear friend, I don't deserve you." Aimery leaves off long enough to smile at him quite adoringly.

"Of course you do. Of course you do." Daniel kisses his cheek.

"No," wistfully. "And-- God, I'm lucky."

Daniel takes a deep breath, but says nothing for the moment, only looks at him.

Aimery bites his lip. "Are you--"

"What, love?"

"Do you regret this?" softly.

Daniel blinks. "What's to regret?"

Aimery fidgets a little. "Mixing yourself up in this. Letting me ask terrible things of you."

"I could never find anyone else half as -- as wonderful, in every way, as you are," softly. "I would be wasting my time, if I tried. I -- sometimes it's still strange, our friends, but they're good men. And you, love, you are the best of us all." Daniel kisses him.

Aimery returns the kiss, laughing. "Now you're being ridiculous. Oh, my dear..."

"No, I'm not."

"With that last, you were." He kisses Daniel's shoulder, and looks at him again earnestly. "Are you happy?"

"Right now? Yes."

"I mean-- mostly?"

Daniel kisses him. "More than not."

Aimery sighs. "All right."

"I love you. I want you -- God, I want you almost as much as I love you."

Daniel kisses him again, more desperately.

"I love you too, God knows-- shh, love--" kissing him back tenderly.

"Then what's wrong?"

Again Aimery squirms a little. "Sometimes I worry."

"What worries you?" gently.

"Whether you might not be happier ... otherwise."

"I wouldn't." Daniel kisses him again.

"Oh..." Aimery sighs against his mouth. " _Chéri_."

"I adore you."

"And I you."

"Make love to me," in a whisper.

"Oh, yes," softly, breathlessly.

Daniel runs a hand down his back. "Lovely."

"If you want to call it that," mildly.

" _Cher_ \--"

"Hush," caressing him. "Let me."

Daniel sighs and relaxes.

Aimery is quiet then for some time, stroking his skin lightly, covering him with kisses.

"You drive me mad," breathlessly.

"Good," between kisses bestowed in unmentionable places. "I want to. I want to make you forget you were ever unhappy, I want to give you such delight, oh, God, Daniel--"

"Aimé," tousling his hair further. "Please."

"What, lover?"

"I can't think."

"Don't think." Aimery kisses him again, deliberately provocative, and then sits up, sliding a hand between Daniel's legs. "Let me?"

Daniel obligingly ends up quite spreadeagled in a short period of time.

Aimery caresses him lightly, then leans over the edge of the bed for a moment.

Daniel blushes. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Aimery straightens, and bends to kiss him. "More than I can say."

"Dearest," embracing him.

Aimery nuzzles his shoulder. "Hm?"

"Please, love."

"What?" kissing him again before sitting up.

Daniel laughs a little. "How badly must I want you before you'll do as I ask?"

Aimery smiles at him. "Only making sure," and is busy for a moment.

"I was beginning to wonder."

"Sweet brother, as if I could deny you." Aimery leans over to kiss him again, stroking him lightly.

Daniel sighs. "You can -- sometimes."

"Not for long," easing a slick finger inside him.

Daniel strokes his hair. "Mm."

"Beloved," softly.

"You're beautiful," moving towards him a bit.

"Lie back, love, lie back, let me. So are you."

"I can hardly reach you like this," but he complies.

"Can't you?" Aimery settles a little closer.

"That's better," running a hand down his body.

Aimery shivers pleasurably, and kisses him again.

"God, that's nice."

"Is it?" as though in polite surprise.

"Yes. Please --"

"What, _cher_?" elaborating a bit.

Daniel closes his eyes. "Love you."

Aimery presses closer, kissing his cheek.

Daniel sighs and runs a hand down his back.

" _Chéri_ ," Aimery whispers against his skin, " _chéri_."

"Please," pulling him closer.

Aimery nestles into his arms, and then, after a few readjustments, closer still.

Daniel sighs. "Oh, God, _mon amour._ "

"Beloved," breathlessly.

"Aimé," before kissing him.

Aimery knots his clean hand in Daniel's hair, clinging to him.

"Never leave me," with a hitch in the middle.

"Never. Oh God, never."

Daniel's fingernails leave bright lines on Aimery's shoulder. "Please, yes."

"O my God, oh, love--" Aimery kisses him again fiercely, shuddering.

Daniel returns the kiss with matching passion, making a small noise in his throat.

After a moment Aimery shudders again, and breaks the kiss to gasp for breath, burying his face in Daniel's shoulder. "God."

"Don't stop," desperately.

"God, love," rocking against him, caressing him blindly.

" _Mon ange,_ " and it is not clear that Daniel knows what he is saying, really, for the next thing he says is quite wordless and perhaps louder than it ought to be.

"O my Daniel," Aimery breathes, and embraces him tightly.

Daniel gasps for breath for a moment, then holds him. "Never, never leave me."

"Never," muffled against his hair.

"I love you."

"And I you." Aimery laughs. "My God, you're -- splendid."

"I'm a mess," clinging to him.

Aimery kisses his cheek. "A damnably handsome mess."

"Flatterer."

"No, no."

"Yes, yes." Daniel smiles hazily at him.

Aimery grins back in a similar daze. "Best-looking mess I've ever met."

"You didn't meet me like this." Daniel licks Aimery's bottom lip. "I'm sure of it."

"Not really, no."

"Mm." Daniel stretches his arms.

"Dearest brother." Aimery nuzzles his shoulder for a minute, then disentangles carefully.

Daniel sighs. "I love you."

Aimery kisses his cheek. "I love you, too." He sits up, yawning.

"Don't go far," on another sigh.

"Whyever would I do that?" He crosses the room to wash his hands.

"I don't know, but I miss you already." Daniel watches him. He still hasn't made the first attempt to move.

"You are nervous tonight," gently teasing.

Daniel sits up. "Do you ever have that feeling where you want to be in someone else's skin?"

Aimery turns, drying his hands, and regards him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure."

"Not -- sexually, not really. Just wanting to be close to someone, so close you're almost the same person."

Aimery considers. "I don't know." He puts the towel aside, and comes over to get back into bed. "I'd never thought of it."

Daniel hugs him. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" settling into his arms.

"Being ridiculous."

"Were you? I hadn't noticed."

"Mm," murmured into his hair.

"My dear, you're not the one who's been ridiculous this evening," kissing his shoulder.

"You weren't weeping over nothing."

"No. But still."

Daniel shrugs.

Aimery runs a soothing hand down his side. "Beloved, don't worry so."

"I'm not worried."

"Are you happy?" wistfully.

"Yes." Daniel kisses his cheek.

Aimery nestles against him with a small sigh.


	53. Concession (Enjolras): January, 1832

Does this please you, love? I have never wanted anyone but you; never dreamed, on solitary nights, of any touch but yours. My heart is not made as yours is, to be divided, to be less than content with one and one only. I could be alone with you forever, and lack for nothing.

They are friends. They are allies. They are nothing beside you.

I could be faithful to you forever; and yet, if you ask it, I can be otherwise.

Aimery is very dear to me; of anyone, he comes nearest to equalling you in my affections. If you had never existed, perhaps, I could love him. Or perhaps he would make me nervous -- his passion, his headlong intensity -- without you to balance him.

We never speak of those first nights, the ones we agreed were necessary. I don't want to know if you enjoy them; you don't want to hear that I do not. So I cannot possibly tell you how close I came to losing my composure with Aimery, that time; how I fought to keep my face from betraying me, to remember that this was ritual, not dalliance. I was terrified that you would see how he affected me, as though you would be jealous, as though your seeing would make it true.

When you wanted to bring him home to me, how could I deny you? I love you; you love him; and something in him inspires madness. The voice of decency grows faint in the face of such arguments. Yes, love. If it pleases you, I don't mind.

And when I come home, after a late night, and find him dozing in my place against your shoulder--

How can I not join you there, slipping between the sheets to nestle against the warmth of the two of you? To feel you wake, and turn to me, is all the sweeter for his sleepy smile. There is a guilty thrill in seeing him so intimately -- for he is handsome, I will grant you that, with his hair tousled and his shirt open at the neck -- and then there is something else, hot and possessive and not altogether friendly. He has what he wants of you, companionship, pleasure, love; but you are mine, all the same.

Are you glad, when he reaches for me? I am half afraid to accept his embrace, wary of the way he makes me feel. His eagerness is catching. I am not myself in his arms; I am feverish, impatient, maddened. I am at his mercy in a way that would infuriate me if I were not already bereft of my senses.

It is for your sake. I could never bring myself to let go like this, yield to his damnable confidence, if I did not know the effect that it has on you. Through the pounding of my heart, I can hear your breath catch; between kisses that dizzy me, I catch glimpses of your face, rapt and yearning. And God, what irony! that he makes me burn as you never have, though I love you more than life, though he means nothing to me beside you; and, watching him in your place, you look more ecstatic than ever you do in my arms. 

Even in the depths of madness, when all I can feel is Aimery, when the heat and the pressure of him inside me makes me cry out in spite of all my resolve -- even then, I am thinking: Is this what you want? Does this please you? Does it, my love?


	54. Amazed (Pontmercy): March, 1832

_Marius had witnessed the unexpected termination of the ambush upon whose track he had set Javert; but Javert had no sooner quitted the building, bearing off his prisoners in three hackney-coaches, than Marius also glided out of the house. It was only nine o'clock in the evening. Marius betook himself to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was no longer the imperturbable inhabitant of the Latin Quarter, he had gone to live in the Rue de la Verrerie "for political reasons"; this quarter was one where, at that epoch, insurrection liked to install itself. Marius said to Courfeyrac: "I have come to sleep with you." Courfeyrac dragged a mattress off his bed, which was furnished with two, spread it out on the floor, and said: "There."_

I had nowhere else to go if I was not going to throw myself on my grandfather's dubious mercies, but I had forgotten to wonder whether Aimery already had a roommate. They argued when Daniel arrived at home, while I pretended to be passionately interested in a newspaper I had borrowed from Aimery. They shut themselves in the bedroom, leaving me in the outer chamber, and kept their voices down as best they could, although I could hear the edge in Daniel's voice.

Perhaps half an hour later, Aimery came out again, kissed me on the cheek, and put his hat on. "Don't worry, it'll be all right. He's asleep," with a glance at the door to the bedroom. "I'll be back soon."

"All right." He went out and did not return before I had fallen asleep, trying not to think about Daniel in the next room and our tumultuous history. It was years ago, after all, and now he clearly had someone else, and the sweet girl of the Jardin du Luxembourg inhabited my thoughts.

The next evening, they led me off to dinner with their friends, Aimery taking my arm as if his lover was not watching, or as if he thought I would get lost otherwise. Aimery ordered me to sit at his table, though he was up and about quite a lot, talking now with one, now with another. He seemed to be passing gossip that amused Prouvaire and Bahorel, and made Enjolras' cheeks go pale, although he apparently accepted the truth of whatever it was when Combeferre added to Aimery's tale. I assumed that they could not be speaking of me; I had done nothing worthy of comment but fall in love, and I would be damned before I told Aimery about the girl whose face and form haunted me.

Fortunately, whatever the gossip was, they finished sharing it in due time and Enjolras was able to share the latest political developments with the group, which included many men whose faces I did not know. I had learned enough from the newspaper I'd read the previous night to make a few salient contributions, which was unusual for me in such company. I almost laughed at myself and my apparent revolutionary sympathies until I remembered my most recent change of address and realized that I had indeed plunged myself into the heart of oncoming change, and that I might as well make the best of my alliances while I could, if the men of this café would accept me and forget my earlier stances on such matters.

At the end of the evening, Daniel smiled at me. For a moment, I remembered what it had been to love him, gentle and kind, generous to a fault, but I shook my head a little and thought of my elusive nymph. She was more lovely, surely more pure of heart, and it would dishonor her to allow myself to be distracted by this man. Still, when he walked beside me on our way home, so close that our shoulders brushed from time to time, I could hardly think solely of her.

We had gone home before Aimery, although I could not have said why. There was always a muddle at the door when such a meeting dispersed, but I would have thought that Daniel would wait for him. Instead, when we stepped inside the room made cluttered and close by the mattress Aimery had lent me, Daniel kissed me.

I backed away from him as best I could without tripping over the furniture. "You can't have meant that."

"Can't I, Marius?" He tilted his head to one side a little and smiled at me. "It may not be quite what you think."

"Aimery will be here any moment," I warned him.

"I know." He offered me a hand, palm up. "I'm not going to -- I mean, this isn't a betrayal of Aimery."

"How can it be anything else?" I felt dizzy. I thought he was strong, I thought he had forgotten me utterly, and it seemed that everything I had thought was wrong.

"Among our Friends," Daniel explained, touching my shoulder gently, "there is a certain ritual by which one proclaims his allegiance to the cause, and to the others."

"I'm not one of you."

"Not properly," he agreed. "Not yet. But you've flung yourself into the middle of things, and surely you must be aware of the growing tensions in the city."

I frowned. I was not exactly aware, as I had had my own troubles without worrying about the country's. "What do you mean, not yet?"

"You've fallen back into this at a rather complex juncture. If you're going to stay -- here, or among the men we met with tonight -- we must know that we can trust you."

That cut more deeply than I was prepared to feel. "Daniel." I put a hand on his shoulder. "You must know I never meant to hurt you. I was desperate, and I loved you, but I've changed since then. I've met the most beautiful girl -- I -- I would do nothing that would hurt you, ever again."

He blinked, then shook his head. "I'm sure you've changed a great deal. It's been a long time. But I was not speaking merely of myself, but of the members of the society."

I sighed, wondering what slights I had committed against them, whomever their membership should include. I was not certain that I valued these men as friends enough to submit to confession of my sins or whatever sacrilegious penance they would prescribe, but if my staying in my present begged lodgings was contingent on such a membership, it was necessary. "How does one prove himself worthy?"

Daniel kissed me lightly, startling me. "It has to do with certain intimacies." He embraced me and I settled into his arms, hungry in some part of me for comfort and friendship although what he spoke of seemed deeper than that and more complex. "We usually -- ah -- do this more privately, but there is very little time, by all accounts."

"What do you mean?"

He kissed me again with all the familiarity of a former lover. I had been longing for the girl whose name I could not even guess. Daniel offered me comfort of a sort I had not had in a long while, and I did not have the power to refuse him even when I knew that his lover would arrive any moment. But he stopped kissing me after I began to tremble a little, when he must have known that I could not think clearly, and he said, "Dear Marius. All you need to do is share a part of yourself with them."

I blinked, trying to clear my head to understand what he meant. "What?"

"Let us do this," he entreated me in a whisper as he untied my cravat.

"Wait." I put a hand on his wrist. "What do you mean?"

His cheeks were red, and from the way he avoided my eyes I assumed it was embarrassment as much as any other emotion. "It requires an exchange of pleasure."

"If you're sure Aimery won't mind --" I could feel my knees shaking a little at the prospect.

"Not only with me." He kissed my cheek. "With -- each of them."

I choked, and when I spoke my voice was unwontedly soprano. "With whom, precisely?"

"God," he said, a soft but heartfelt oath. "With myself. And Aimery. And -- Prouvaire, and Combeferre, and Enjolras, and -- Bossuet, and Joly," and then, more softly, as though he did not want me to hear, "and Bahorel."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." I staggered back, unable to stand alone and equally unable to accept his embrace for a moment longer.

"No, not them," and he had the audacity to smile at me for a moment before he looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Marius."

"What on earth do they want from me? Why me?" I was not handsome by any measure, and to find that a legion of my acquaintances harbored a secret passion for me was both flattering and starkly terrifying.

"Because you want to join this brotherhood." Daniel sighed. "This is how it is done."

"But -- why me?"

"It's nothing to do with you particularly," he said, somewhat impatiently. "It has to do with what you want as much as what anyone would want of you."

"But --"

"I told you. It is the rule of the society." He shrugged. "If you would rather not --"

I covered my eyes with one hand. "And you say that they would trust me, afterward?"

"Implicitly."

"A -- brotherhood." I bit my lip. "I have never had a brother."

"You would have eight." He put a hand on my shoulder, and I did not shy away.

"Eight?" I blinked. "Eight men. Why do you propose this to me?"

Daniel kissed me again, weakening my resolve and my balance. "Because you can bear it without disgust." He unbuttoned my collar. "We know that much of you."

I blushed. "You did not tell them."

"Aimery asked, and I could not lie to him."

"Aimery." I felt my cheeks turn a brighter red.

"And Jehan."

I buried my face in his shoulder. "My God. Don't you keep any secrets?"

"We don't lie to one another, even by omission." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Do you wish to do this?"

"To -- allow that?" My stomach turned over at the thought. I tried to ignore my own desire for contact with someone, anyone. I loved Ursula -- not Ursula -- the most beautiful girl in the world. I loved her deeply, and yet --

"It is a trifle. Do you wish to be a part of this brotherhood?"

I clenched one of my hands into a fist and hoped that the pain of the nails digging into my palm would clear my head a little. "Yes," I said after a minute's consideration. Friendship, loyalty, truth -- what could be wrong in these things?

Daniel kissed me again. "Then it will be so. But -- but because we don't know how long it will be before all men are needed -- it might be tomorrow, or the next day --" He coughed. "They'll be here soon."

"They?" I stared at him.

"All of them."

"All -- oh, God. You must be joking." The thought of suffering each of their company separately had been uncomfortable enough but to undergo it in an overcrowded rush would be unconscionable.

"If only I was." He kissed me again, tangling his fingers in my hair, and I could feel his effort to keep me off-balance in the urgency of the kiss. "It may be easier this way."

"I doubt it."

"We'll see." He took my hand. "Come to bed, Marius?"

It was not an invitation I could refuse, even in full knowledge that I followed him into his lover's bedroom. There was another spare mattress on the floor there, optimistically waiting for my verdict, and a covered frame hung on the wall, concealing either an extravagant mirror or a painting. The bed had been restored to its former luxury. Daniel tugged me in that direction, his fingers busy on the buttons of my waistcoat, pausing every now and then to kiss me or caress me. He kept me so incapacitated that I could not return the favors beyond giving him breathless kisses. Before long, he had my shirt and my waistcoat hanging open and he ran his hand down my chest. "Then again," he commented dryly, as though we had continued talking the whole time, "you are beautiful."

"I'm not," I objected, but he forestalled any further protestation on my part by unbuttoning my pants.

"We ought to put your clothes with the rest of your things so that you can find them in the morning." Whatever he had to say at the time was probably better advice than I could think of, so I let him take off my shoes, socks, and pants. When he carried them into the next room and left me alone, the dizziness faded enough that I could get under the covers. I had no desire to be discovered lounging nude on Aimery's counterpane, especially not if it should transpire that Daniel was telling me an elaborate lie.

The outer door opened and I hid under the covers, all too aware of my nudity. I had not been thinking clearly when I consented to participate in madness, but with the possibility of someone else to bear witness to my folly I was hideously embarrassed. Whomever it was spoke quietly with Daniel before laughing -- and when they laughed, I could hear at least three voices, none of them Daniel's. I covered my eyes, wishing I were anywhere but there.

Daniel came into the room before he allowed the others in -- I could hear them discussing it, and surely that was Jean's voice -- and he sat on the edge of the bed. "Marius," Daniel said, tugging on the covers. "You can stop this at any time."

I looked up at him, and he bent to kiss me. "But Daniel --"

He shrugged. "You can. No one will do anything you don't want."

"They're here."

He looked toward the door. "They can leave."

I covered my face with my hands. "But you'll turn me out."

"It's not for me to say." He tousled my hair. "But -- Aimery might, and they might send you away from the meetings if I told them about the letters."

"Damn it." I embraced him and kissed him fiercely, trying to convince myself that I wanted this from him.

"It's all right," he said breathlessly, running a hand across my shoulders. "Calm down, Marius." And he spoke the words of the vow to me, words of brotherhood and truth and support. Between sentences, he kissed me, but beyond that he did little to add to my state of confusion. I realized why at the end of this recital, when he asked me to say them back to him. I did, faltering a little, but he prompted me, and when I had finished he kissed me again, then turned away and said, "Jehan?"

It was not only Jean but also Bossuet. Joly hesitated in the doorway while the first two came over to the bed, and then went into the other room with Daniel and closed the door. Jean kissed me and got into bed next to me as if we had been lovers for years, kicking off his shoes. "Good evening, Marius," he said to me, and without further preamble he embraced me. Bossuet slid into bed on my other side and put his arm around me, running his fingers down my side. Jean laughed. "How lovely to be keeping company with you again." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Help me out of my shirt, would you, Marius? I'm sure you'll find it easier than stays."

I blushed fiercely at this and would have pushed him away if we had been alone. I had never wanted him, never really wanted the girl he pretended to be, I knew that now. Surely I had only gone with her -- with him -- because she resembled my Mam'selle Lanoire to some degree, and I had had some inkling at the time that she would become an angel. But this was Jean without artifice, without skirts, and I was expected to make love to him. He had asked it of me before and visited me a handful of times, but that was only Jehan, without an onlooker, and that had been easier, almost maddening in its intensity. I did not know how this could be the same. I helped him undress, although as I did it Bossuet took advantage of my absorption in the task to caress and distract me every other moment. While Jean wriggled out of his pants, Bossuet encouraged me to turn and face him. When I did, he kissed me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

At last he let me breathe, and he laughed, tousling my hair. "Beautiful Pontmercy. It was good luck that made our paths cross."

"Mine, indeed," I said with some chagrin and kissed him again, mindful of the debt I owed him that I had never been able to repay. If he would only accept this instead then perhaps my conscience could be clean. I helped him undress as well, though Jean was more insistently distracting than he had been and I often had to bite my lip as his gentle fingers explored my body so that I could continue thinking at all. Naked, Bossuet kissed me, then sat up enough to touch Jean's shoulder and draw him into a brief embrace before they both looked at me.

I could feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment at being caught between two friends with four hands busy at teasing me. I could do little but gasp at these attentions and cling to their shoulders, their forearms, anything I could reach without opening my eyes so that I would have to see them. It was better to be blind, I decided, than to be so embarrassed that I would have to push them away. I hardly knew which of them kissed me from moment to moment -- was it Bossuet who had a mustache, or Jean? -- and I barely cared whose hand was on my chest, who had traced a wet line up my thigh with what must have been his tongue, which of them I embraced and kissed to muffle my cries as I was overcome.

I lay between them, filled with lassitude and gratitude. Bossuet ran his fingers through my hair and spoke the words of the required vow to me. I said them back to him, and then to Jean, as if the repetition would make it stronger. Jean kissed my cheek and chuckled at me before he repeated it. He reached past me and squeezed Bossuet's hand. "Perhaps we ought to make room, _cher_."

I frowned. "I thought --"

"What, Marius?"

"I thought I was supposed to -- to, you know." And despite what they had done for me, or perhaps because of it, I blushed.

Jean laughed again. "Perhaps some other time, brother. You have a long night ahead, and the rules are different tonight. Besides," he said, and grinned at Bossuet, "we can take care of one another."

"Oh." I lay back against the pillow, and watched them go. As soon as they were both out of bed, they embraced. Bossuet laughed and said, "Let me put my shirt on, and my pants."

"I'll only help you out of them again in a minute," Jean said, but they both got half-dressed before they opened the door. "And we'll probably want this out there, more than in here." He tugged at the corner of the mattress on the floor. Bossuet helped him carry it into the other room.

Joly came in a moment after they left, looking uncomfortable. I had pulled the covers up to my chin, and I was not in the least sure that I could be properly appreciative of any further overtures quite yet. He seemed to recognize this, for without entirely looking me in the eye, he sat on the bed, kissed my cheek, and said the words that the other three had said. I repeated them back to him, and when I would have used his surname, he corrected me gently with, "Chrétien. Brother." He kissed me at length, sealing the vow, then stood and gave me a little bow.

"Thank you, Chrétien," I said as he started for the door.

"You're welcome." He opened it and said at once, "Hello, Théo -- oh -- oh. Did you mean -- oh. All right."

Before I could make any sense of this, Enjolras and Combeferre came into the room. Of all of the men present, these were the ones who most made me feel as though I knew nothing, as though my beliefs were straw in the wind, and as though even if I tried I could not accomplish anything worth having. Combeferre had an air of wisdom beyond his years, of patience and generosity that I could never hope to equal, but he at least was kind to those with whom he disagreed. Everything about Enjolras spoke of severity: his appearance, his plain clothing, his speech, his manner of walking, his rhetoric. How two so different men had found something of value in each other was beyond my comprehension; why either of them would choose to befriend me -- let alone this -- did not bear contemplation, as I was certain I would never discover the truth.

And yet they were not what I expected them to be, not entirely. Combeferre rubbed my back as if to calm me, a welcome gesture as any I'd seen yet that day, but Enjolras kissed me before I had a chance to ask whether he wanted to or not. The kiss, at least, seemed like the man I knew: forceful, direct, and possessed of a certain grace that few could imitate. He guided my hand to his collar and encouraged me to help him out of his clothes with the same strength of character that carried him in front of crowds to speak sedition.

It was not the confused, blind whirlwind that Bossuet and Jean had inflicted upon me. Enjolras said nothing, but he guided my hand as clearly as if he had asked me to please him. I did not know how the rules of the madness that had caught me up defined my responsibilities, but it was easy enough to caress him and kiss him. He was strikingly beautiful from a distance; so close, he seemed nearly too perfectly aesthetically pleasing to be real. But he was real, for even as I touched him he returned the favor, and all the while Combeferre, perhaps afraid that such close quarters would make me uncomfortable, rubbed one of my shoulders gently and murmured soft phrases that I could not concentrate well enough to understand. Enjolras writhed in my arms, his mouth pressed to mine as if he would not be able to breathe otherwise. He caught his breath and opened his eyes, smiling a little at me, and as he spoke the words of the vow, Combeferre put an arm around me and finished what Enjolras had begun, making my breath catch. Near the end I had to cover my face, for I could not bear to be so vulnerable in front of two such men.

While I recovered, Combeferre said the words that theoretically embodied what they had done to me, and I said them back -- I could do it, by then, without faltering, though they both corrected me when I went to say their names and asked me to use their Christian names. I had heard others, perhaps Aimery, say "Audric" and "Julien" to them in the past, but it would never have seemed proper to me to take such a liberty. I told myself that that was before we were sworn brothers. They took leave of me with a kiss and Combeferre -- Audric -- helped Enjolras dress again before they left. I fell into a doze.

By the time I woke again, someone else was in bed with me. It took me a moment to realize who it was, for he had embraced me as tenderly as one could wish and he was doing his best, despite my exhaustion, to arouse my desire. I made some wordless noise and he sat up to find out whether I was awake or not. "Bahorel," I said, wanting to shy away from him, for nothing about him has ever charmed me.

He kissed me, ignoring my startled reaction, and corrected me with, "Christophe, _mon frère_."

"Brother --" I repeated, and interrupted myself with a yawn.

"We've been cruel to you," he said softly, and kissed me again.

"No one has." I turned to embrace him, for the warmth of his body was as comforting as the feel of the pillow under my head, and I was very tired.

He chuckled. "I didn't mean it literally. You must be exhausted."

I could only agree, nodding against his shoulder. "This is overwhelming."

"I shan't ask you to exert yourself overmuch, then," he said solicitously. "Turn onto your stomach and let me rub your back?" I did, and found that his hands were strong and relaxing, skilled at convincing my muscles to relax. I could have fallen asleep again like that, blissfully forgetting who was manipulating my body so well, if he had not let his hands slide lower, and even then I thought he was only massaging my thighs until he pressed a finger against a place that needed no relaxation at all. 

I turned onto my side. "What was that?"

He shook his head. "Relax, brother."

"No." I sat up a little. "What were you doing?"

He kissed me until I could hardly breathe. "Nothing that you'll find unpleasant, if you'll only let me begin properly."

"Oh, God." I could not think, or I would have realized how improbable it was that he made my blood pound in my ears, that even after the earlier exertions I could nearly have articulated a request for something more from him, if only I knew what it was I wanted in any clear sense. Words escaped my grasp. I could only signal my consent to what he offered, whatever it was, by resuming my earlier prone position and burying my face in the down pillow again.

"You're beautiful, Marius," he said softly as he resumed what he had been doing. I would have protested, but it seemed as though that would require too much effort. When he paused, I sighed and reached for his hand, but he chuckled and stayed well out of reach. "In a moment, _cher_ ," and a moment later he began again with the oddest sensation I could remember feeling. I was on the verge of asking him to stop when the strangeness changed into an intense pleasure which brought my head out of the pillow.

"What on earth?"

He rubbed my shoulders. "It's all right."

"More than," I agreed, lest he stop, "but what was that?"

"Only this," and the sensation was back, taking my breath away.

"God in Heaven," I said when I could say anything again, and he laughed softly.

"Beautiful. Will you let me do this, then?"

I had only a vague memory what was meant by "this," and yet I could not deny him. "Yes. Please."

He embraced me and kissed the back of my neck. "Relax, brother."

I yawned again. "I'm relaxed."

"Are you sure?" He trailed his fingers down my back and made me shiver.

"Christophe," I objected, and was a little proud of myself for remembering his name. "That tickles."

"I didn't mean to tickle." He rubbed my back. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"I never meant to make you uncomfortable," he murmured into my ear. The low pitch of his voice made me shiver.

"You haven't. You didn't. It's all right." I pushed myself off the bed a little so that I could feel his skin against my back.

He kissed my shoulder. "Good." Again, my breath caught as he caressed me, and then he shifted a little and captured my earlobe between his teeth. " _Cher_."

"God." There were no words left in my mind but that.

"Lovely Marius." Christophe kissed my neck again, and moved a little. I could not think or breathe for a timeless interval. When it seemed that my heart had begun beating again, there was pain, and there was pleasure, and more than that there was Christophe, breathing soft compliments in my ear and entreating me to relax, relax, relax. I took a deep breath and was barely conscious that I let it out in a moan. He asked me to "Sit up a little," but I did not know how to move until he let me go and put an arm around my chest. Then I knew what he meant, and I could settle back onto my knees, into his embrace. He nuzzled my ear again with another order to relax, and I tried, breathing deeply, although it caught as he pulled me closer.

I could think nothing and say nothing but his name, over and over. He had one arm around my chest as if I would fall if he let me go, and with his other hand he caressed me. I forgot who he was even as I called his name, even as I forgot my own name for a long moment, forgot everything but pleasure. When I came to myself again, Christophe had settled beside me with an arm around me. "Oh," I said, for want of words.

"Are you all right?" He grinned at me with such wicked glee that I blushed.

"I think so."

"Oh, good." He tousled my hair. "Pretty boy. We never did say the words, you know."

"Oh." I yawned. "I can't remember."

"That good?" He kissed me lightly.

"I never really learned them." I avoided looking at him.

"Well, all right. Just repeat, then," and so he led me through it, although I yawned prodigiously from moment to moment. As soon as we had sworn, he kissed me for a long moment, then got out of bed. "Good evening, Marius."

It was suddenly cold without his presence. "What?"

"I'm going home. I doubt there's room for four in that bed."

"Not if one of them is you," Aimery said. I jumped a little and would have sat up in startlement if I had had the energy. He considerately moved so that I could see him. As with the rest of his fellows that evening, he wore only a shirt and a pair of pants, and his shirt was untucked. I had no idea how long he had been in the room.

Christophe kissed him at length. "Good night, Aimé."

"Good night, Chris." Aimery handed him his shirt.

"Thank you."

I hid my face, as though it would be more intimate to watch him dressing than to have him make love to me. Aimery sat on the bed next to me and offered me a handkerchief, which I accepted although I was horribly embarrassed. Everything that had happened -- and in his bed, when he had so considerately given me a place to sleep! What if he objected to it, to my shameful behavior, for such it seemed with the haze of pleasure fading from my mind. When Christophe had left, I said, "I'm sorry, Aimery."

"What?" He touched my cheek. "I can barely hear you."

I sat up enough to talk to him. "I said, I'm sorry. I -- do you have any idea how sorry I am, all of this, if it had been somewhere else, if I had only thought better of it, I'm sorry."

"Marius, Marius." He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous, _mon ami_. It's all right. You can promise me in the morning."

I rubbed my eyes, barely understanding anything he said. "Promise you what?"

He kissed me with great focus and awareness of my response, which was to sigh and embrace him as though he were about to flee. He grinned at me afterward." Promise you'll be a good brother to me, of course. And Daniel, too. You owe us that much."

"Oh." I thought a moment. "I promised Daniel already."

"But you hardly touched him." He kissed my cheek. "It's traditional, you see."

"I hardly -- most of them --" The prospect of going through this ordeal twice was more than I could bear.

"They haven't time to spare," Aimery said with a wave of his hand. "Tomorrow is Daniel's day off."

"Oh." I yawned. "If he wants."

"We'll ask. Move over a bit, would you?"

I edged sideways. He left the room for a minute and returned with Daniel, clad only in a shirt and with his hair rumpled. "We've been borrowing your bed," Aimery said with a smile.

"No, I've been borrowing yours." I yawned.

"Two of them," Daniel said, and got into bed.

"Sorry." I could feel myself falling asleep by the moment.

Daniel kissed my cheek. "Go to sleep, Marius." I needed no further instruction.

I woke with someone's arms around me, and thought for a dizzy moment that I still dreamed of the beautiful girl whom I loved, and who might in time love me. But it was not her, nor was it a dream, although the reality was as confounding. Daniel had embraced me at some point in the night, and now he lay quietly beside me. I sat up a little, not wanting to wake him, and saw that Aimery was still asleep beside him. I put my head down again and tried to fall asleep, but I could not. Their company distracted me, for I was accustomed to sleeping alone, and I was certain that as soon as they woke they would turn me out of bed.

To save them the trouble, I got up, ignoring the soreness in my muscles, but as soon as I stood, Aimery sat up. "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting out of your way." It would have been easier if I had known where my shirt was, or my pants, or anything, but I had no idea where they had gone.

Aimery chuckled. "Come back to bed."

"Why?"

"I haven't promised you anything yet." He smiled at me.

I looked away. "Don't I know you well enough to trust you?"

"Marius." He got out of bed with easy grace, as if blithely unaware that he was nude, and he embraced me. " _Mon ami_ , don't be ridiculous. Come to bed, kiss me, and make me a promise, and it will be finished."

"We shouldn't wake Daniel." How could he say such things with his lover sleeping in the room?

"The hell we shouldn't. You ought to promise to him properly, none of this stinting in haste. We've time today." Aimery kissed me at length, until I could hardly breathe. "Come to bed," he said again.

"In a moment," I assured him. "Isn't there a pitcher of water in the other room?"

"I think I refilled it yesterday."

"Then I'll be back in a moment."

The two mattresses on the floor of the other room seemed to have been abused nearly as much as Aimery's bed, and the furniture was in hasty disarray. I shook my head at the state of it and tried not to wonder what had occurred. My own memories were more than distressing enough. I performed my ablutions and found a clean set of clothes, which I brought back into the bedroom.

By the time I returned, Aimery had awakened Daniel. They were embracing and talking softly. I backed up, wanting to give them what modicum of privacy I still could, but the board under my foot creaked and Aimery looked up. "Marius. Come to bed." I set my clothing down on a chair where I could find it again easily and complied. It was much warmer beside Aimery than it had been in the other room, and yet more so when he embraced me. He kissed me again, ran his hand down my side, and grinned at me. "You ought to switch places with me."

"What?" After a moment, I understood. "Oh." I glanced at Daniel. "I should get dressed."

"Not at all." Aimery nibbled on my ear and made my breath catch. "Don't go."

Daniel touched my cheek. "It's all right. Come here?"

I was clumsier than usual, distracted by desire and by the lingering aches inflicted the day before, but I managed to settle between them without hurting any of us. Daniel sighed and embraced me, whispering my name before he kissed my cheek. "God, Aimery," he said, although it seemed he was speaking to me, "this is so odd."

"Is it?" Aimery asked, reaching past me to touch his shoulder.

"Yes." Daniel blinked at me for a moment, then kissed me, tangling his fingers in my hair. I embraced him, and heard Aimery chuckle softly. Aimery caressed me, then, and I clung to Daniel, blindly seeking affection. He broke the kiss after a few minutes, leaving me gasping for air. I blinked at him before my eyes would focus on his face, and I struggled to be able to think. They wanted me to do no such thing, clearly, not with Aimery's hands on me and Daniel's mouth hot on my breast. I could not stop them, even if I had wanted to try, and I wanted nothing of the sort. It was all I could do to reach for Daniel and feel the remembered warmth of his body against my hands.

Aimery let me go for a moment, leaving me free to pay better attention to kissing Daniel and listening to his breath accelerate. He was as thin as he'd been in our stolen month together, but somehow there was more fire in his kisses, less reserve in the way he arched into my touch. I realized how much I had missed him in a brief, painful moment, and I had to stop kissing him so that I could close my eyes and stave off inappropriate tears.

Aimery kindly distracted me from this sorrow by easing my thighs apart and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Are you all right, Marius?"

I hardly knew what he meant for a moment. "I -- yes."

He touched me lightly. "Do you mind?"

"No." I leaned toward him as best I could, which made him laugh softly.

"Ah, brother," Aimery whispered. I gasped and leaned into the touch.

Daniel sat up a little to kiss me. "God, Marius, the way you look."

I blushed. I had forgotten him for a moment, caught up in Aimery, and I had entirely forgotten that he would be watching me. I wanted to hide my face, but I had nowhere to go, not while I knelt on their bed between them. "I'm sorry," I said, aware that it was feeble, and that I was not truly contrite. I kissed Daniel again so that he would not think I was ignoring him.

He touched my cheek and ran a hand down my chest. "It's all right. I know you were being distracted." He glanced at Aimery, and I wanted to be anywhere but there, caught between two lovers and stealing their affections from each other. Daniel did not seem to mind as much as I thought he might, perhaps not even as much as he should have. He put a finger to my lips as if to prevent me from another apology, then slid it into my mouth with a faint smile.

It was as well that he had done so, for I would have cried out otherwise. Aimery's fingers had grown less gentle, and though they felt wonderful they also hurt a little. I closed my eyes, trying to forget Daniel's gaze on me, and concentrated instead on the flavor of his skin, slightly salty, a little sour. Aimery nibbled my ear, and then I did cry out, for I was too enmeshed in pleasure to remember caution.

Daniel took his hand away, which woke my rationality a little, but when he edged up the bed I feared he was leaving and I clutched at his shoulder. "Don't go."

"I'm not." He put his hand over mine and squeezed my fingers reassuringly. "Don't worry -- brother. I -- I meant to ask --" and he blushed.

In a moment I understood, and by way of answer I pressed a kiss to his stomach. I could not meet his eyes, could not acknowledge that I had betrayed my love for him by sharing a bed with other men, although surely he had already guessed it was so, or he would not ask that of me. I wanted to frame the right explanation, one that would excuse me from blame and yet not seem to implicate him, but as I went to begin it, Aimery pressed closer and I found myself wholly caught up in the moment. I bent my head, uncertain how long I would be able to do anything that required thought, and someone said my name breathlessly. Daniel ran his fingers through my hair; Aimery clung to my hips so tightly that I might have protested, had I a moment to do it in or the least desire to risk losing the rhythm of his body. I closed my eyes, overcome by sensation and not yet overwhelmed. For long moments I belonged to them, and they to me. I loved them as much as I had ever loved anyone, even the elusive girl whose name I did not know and whose face I could not conjure before my eyes in that extremity of joy, and surely they cared for me that they allowed me such intimacy.

At length I could not breathe, and I looked up at Daniel. He smiled at me dazedly and touched my cheek. I said his name into the palm of his hand, and I began to caress him. I could not conceive of gentleness, not with Aimery calling my name and driving me to the brink of madness with desire, but the rough haste had infected Daniel as well. He lay down again, easing one leg between my spread thighs, and kissed me with a ferocity I did not know he possessed, gasping for breath and pushing against my hand to urge me faster while he returned that inflammatory embrace and pressed me to greater heights. 

With equal desperation I wanted it to last forever and to finish immediately, and so I struggled for both. The latter triumphed, and I kissed Daniel hard to muffle my cries. Aimery pulled me closer for a moment, whispering my name into my ear as he trembled, then kissing my ear as he calmed. I hardly heard him, for I was focused on Daniel, who clasped my shoulder, then buried his face in my neck, muffling a wordless cry of pleasure before he, too, lay still.

I could think of nothing to say that would equal the intensity of what we had just experienced without making it seem ridiculous. I edged sideways awkwardly and nearly fell beside Daniel. Aimery ran his hand across my chest and murmured the now-familiar words of the vow. I repeated them back to him, although I was still a little breathless, and he kissed me. "I fear I'm falling asleep," I said, and yawned.

"Not yet," Daniel objected. For a moment, I feared he wanted something more of me, but he said, "You won't want to wake again like that," and I understood. I was sorely in need of a bath.

"I don't think I can walk that far," I said softly.

"All right," he said, kissed me on the cheek, and got up to fetch the pitcher of water from the other room.

Aimery ran his fingers through my hair. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I think so." I bit my lip. "Please don't send me away yet."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"After all, this is your bed."

He kissed my cheek. "Ah, go to sleep. You can go back to your own bed tonight."

And so I did, although it seemed terribly empty with only the memory of their company, particularly when I knew full well what they shared in the other room while I fruitlessly hunted sleep. I only tried to go to sleep early once, and that was enough to teach me the folly of it. After that, I resumed searching for the elusive mademoiselle, and I tried not to think of way Daniel sounded when he said my name. I was welcome in their political meetings when I had the time, and I was able to do them some service, but I was not content until April, when I found her at last. 


	55. Ingenuity (Bahorel): April, 1832

Jehan has a most vexing habit of sitting half on my lap for most of an evening, leaning on my shoulder, nuzzling my ear, whispering sweet and wicked nothings, and then dancing off to torment some other poor soul, leaving me shivering in his wake, unable to so much as stand up for a long while afterward without risking embarrassment. On one evening when he decided to practice this cruelty on me, he then skipped away and murmured in Aimery's ear, and they went off together. I wanted little more than to chase after them in that moment and watch them kiss each other into a frenzy, but I could not immediately stand, having already risen, as it were. By the time I had composed myself, they were long gone and I would have had to guess which place they had chosen. I abandoned the thought of following them.

I was not the only one present who was sorry to see them go. Daniel was sitting alone and sketching something, looking quite morose. I went to join him, and he gave me his shy smile. There was a streak of orange paint above his left temple from painting who knows what, giving his otherwise blond hair a wilder tinge that did not quite fit with his quiet demeanor. He liked being reserved, private, separate from the common tumult.

When I tried to see what it was he was drawing, he blushed and covered it with one hand. "Why not?" I said, grinning. "You'll hardly shock me."

"Oh, all right -- but keep your voice down, would you?" He glanced around, then pushed his paper towards me. His ears were still pink.

He had drawn a careful portrait of Aimery in his normal carefree slouch, lounging on one of the rickety chairs of the Musain, naked. Daniel had put himself between Aimery's legs, his cheek on one spread thigh.

"Lovely," I said, in the quiet voice he'd requested.

"I was going to show him, but --" Daniel shrugged.

"But then he ran off. Well, it will be just as -- inspiring -- tomorrow."

He bit his lip. "Or later tonight. I suppose he went to Jehan's, knowing that otherwise, well --"

I considered this as he trailed off, and offered, "Just in case, you could come with me. If you wanted."

He frowned, and I could see him measuring me -- all the stories Aimery must have told him or neglected on purpose, everything he'd ever guessed or assumed, and our own brief shared history as more than friends. "All right," he said eventually, and tucked his drawing into a book, then stood. "Shall we?"

Some shred of conscience pinched me and I nearly said, "Are you sure?" but I managed to suppress the urge. Instead, I said, "Certainly," and we left.

It was not until we reached my building that I patted my pockets and realized that I did not have my keys. I swore and looked up in aggravation at my third-floor flat, out of reach. There was lamplight shining out of the window. Daniel was watching me, perplexed, so I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "Either there's some complete idiot of a thief rummaging around my apartment, or Jehan took my keys."

"Oh." Daniel looked up at the window. "I hope it's the latter."

"I'm sure it is. But they'll be expecting me to be surprised." I kissed his cheek. "Be nonchalant with me?"

He smiled, though it wavered. "I can try."

"It'll be fine. Just kiss me and don't let them startle you, whatever they're doing."

His eyebrows rose. "All right."

He followed me up the stairs. When I reached my unlocked door, I knew it had to be an uninvited but welcome guest, for any hostile intruder with a grain of sense would have locked the door to delay me. I stopped trying to moderate the amount of noise the floorboards made. We went inside; the light was in the bedroom, but the door was open far enough to show enough light to see in the main room. "Here, let me take your coat," I said to Daniel, and hung up his hat for him. He gave me a small, wry smile, then let me embrace him.

His lips were soft and tentative against mine, though after a few moments he gained confidence and put his hand on my shoulder, then tangled it in my hair. He pressed against me with a gasp. We are of a height, but he is so slim and self-conscious that I remember him as shorter unless evidence presents itself that reminds me otherwise. I untied his cravat for him and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then paused to nibble on his ear and listen for noises from the other room. If they had been doing something -- and I didn't doubt they had -- they were waiting for my next move.

Daniel's nonchalance was inspiring; he had already unbuttoned my pants and waistcoat and made a good start on my shirt, though he was shivering and aroused. I looked at him, wondering how best to complete the picture. His hair was wild, his clothing askew, his eyes slightly frightened and glazed. I unfastened his collar and nipped at his neck where it would show. He sighed and tightened his hands on my shoulders. When I looked at him again, there was a satisfactory bloom of pink on his neck, his lips were swollen from kisses, and his pants were open. "Ah, _chéri_ , come to bed."

He nodded and I kept my arm around his waist. He leaned on me for support as we started for the bedroom and kissed my cheek. I pushed the door open and Jehan laughed from within. "We were wondering how long it would take you to get here."

He and Aimery had been tangled together in my sheets. When the light hit us, Aimery stood, splendidly nude, and said, "Daniel," brightly, tugging him onto the bed. Daniel clung to him and Aimery murmured in his ear. I could not make out the words thanks to Jehan, who leapt into my arms and kissed me soundly.

" _Cher_ ," said Jehan, "I'm terribly disappointed in you."

"Oh?"

"I didn't think you'd bring someone else with you." He nibbled on my ear. "I wanted --"

I tugged him closer. "What, _petit_?"

"I wanted you to be vexed with me." He sighed and leaned against me. "Aren't you vexed?"

"Terribly." I kissed his cheek. "Stealing my keys and seducing Aimery in my bed -- vexed isn't the half of it. I'll make you pay for it, wicked brother, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jehan sighed. "Why?"

"You're a wretch, and I don't want to frighten Daniel." I gave Jehan a swat and kissed him lightly. "I don't think he needs to know how terrible you can be."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Jehan said. "But -- tomorrow. Promise me?"

"I promise." I nipped his ear and he squirmed. "Did you imagine I'd forgive you so easily for stealing my keys?"

He grinned at me. "I hoped you wouldn't."

"Not at all. But not tonight. Come now, we're being rude. You invited Aimery, and I invited Daniel, and we've left our guests to entertain each other."

"I suppose so." Jehan glanced at them. "But they're doing so well at it, it's a shame to interrupt them."

Aimery had stolen Daniel's pants and compensated with his own body heat by pressing against him. They lay in each other's arms, leisurely kissing and whispering.

I let Jehan go. "It's my duty as host, and yours as -- well -- conspirator. Now, don't sulk," for he was on the verge of it. "Tomorrow, I promise."

"All right, all right."

I walked over to the bed and ran my hand up Daniel's side, then bent and kissed his thigh. "You're lovely."

He startled and reached for my shoulder. "Please -- don't."

Aimery let him go, frowning. "What's wrong, _cher_?"

Daniel blushed from collarbone to hairline. "I -- I suppose I need a bath."

Jehan chuckled. "Easily accomplished."

"Thus speaks the man whose clothing is scattered all over my room." I buttoned my pants and collar. "I'll be back shortly, then."

"You don't need to," Daniel said, trying to push Aimery away.

"It'll be much more fun." I tousled his hair.

"I can leave. It's all right, really." Daniel bit his lip.

"Don't." It was a choral response, and only Aimery appended, "Please."

"Keep him here," I said, winking at them. "I don't want to haul water for nothing." Jehan was at the foot of the bed before I left the room.

When I returned with a decent bucketful of water, Jehan was sitting on Daniel's lap while Aimery pinned his wrists to the pillow. He had stopped protesting, as anyone might with those two taking turns kissing him into breathlessness. I set down the bucket and leaned against the wall, admiring them until Jehan looked up and laughed. "Monsieur, your bath water has arrived."

"What?" Daniel's voice had gone hoarse. "Oh," he said after a moment. "Oh, you shouldn't have bothered."

"Don't worry," Aimery assured him with a light kiss to his forehead. "He'll make sure it's worth his while." He let Daniel's hands go and stood, stretching, as Jehan got up.

"Certainly." I gave Daniel a hand out of bed. He seemed dizzy, so I embraced him and rubbed his shoulders. "It's not entirely for your benefit, after all."

"No -- I know." He leaned on me with a sigh. "God." 

I considered the situation briefly. "Jehan, would you get the pitcher from the other room, and the soap?"

"Of course." He went to get them.

Aimery came up behind Daniel and put his arms around both of us. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Daniel said, smiling faintly.

"Good." Aimery nuzzled his neck. "I'd hate to have to toss Christophe out of his own apartment."

"That shouldn't be necessary." I ran my fingers through Daniel's hair. "If you just wanted to go to sleep -- that's really all right."

He closed his eyes briefly. "I don't particularly want to sleep yet, thank you."

"That's just as well, because you do need a bath." Jehan pressed a wet washcloth into his hand, where it dripped down my back.

"Damn!" I pulled away, leaving Daniel leaning on Aimery, and put an arm around Jehan. "You want me to be furious with you, don't you?"

He grinned at me. "Why? Aren't you yet?"

I scowled back. "Tomorrow, I said."

"Oh, come on, Christophe. Daniel's going to wash anyway." Jehan pressed against me, wriggling. "And I know you're angry."

"I'm not angry. Just -- vexed." I squeezed him and gave Aimery an apologetic look. "Remember? Guests?"

Jehan took my hand and kissed it. "They're busy."

I rolled my eyes and gave him a push toward the bed. "Incorrigible brat."

"Who, me?" he said, all innocence. "I didn't do anything."

"You stole my keys." I sat down on the edge of the bed and caught one of his hands. "And you're making me neglect my guests. And now my back is cold. You're being terrible, _petit_ , and I'm not going to ignore it anymore. Now come here."

He bit his lip, his fine-boned face going red with what I knew full well was anticipation. "Christophe, you wouldn't." There was a sparkle in his eyes, a twist to the corner of his mouth. He was suppressing his glee; he had, after all, fought hard to convince me to play.

"You've earned this." I tugged him over and gave him my fiercest glare. It was difficult not to smile at him, but that would have ruined the mood. "You're impossible and I won't put up with it for another minute."

He beamed at me for a second before starting to struggle. "Stop it. That's not fair. Christophe --"

I tangled my fingers in his hair and pulled him close enough so that I could whisper in his ear. "For God's sake reassure Daniel that you're not actually being tortured, would you? I don't want him to faint in the bath or start trying to protect you."

"Oh." He blushed in earnest then and shivered. "I -- must I?""

"Yes, or I won't so much as touch you." I let him go to underscore this point.

"Christophe," he protested piteously. I only frowned at him. "Oh, all right." He turned around, his eyes on the floor. "Um. Daniel, I -- well -- you must know I -- provoked Christophe into this, and I -- well -- um. Don't mind."

Daniel was, if it was possible, even brighter red than Jehan. "Oh. All right."

"'Don't mind' is putting it mildly," Aimery said, giving Daniel's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry, love. And if you do -- watch Jehan's face."

"Oh." Daniel nodded dubiously, looking extremely worried. "If you say so."

Aimery kissed Daniel's cheek. "Let's get you clean, either way."

I put my hand on Jehan's hip and pulled him onto my lap. He could have fought then, might have pushed my hand away. Instead, he spread his legs and leaned against me. "You're a horrible boy."

"Christophe --" He did his best to struggle without actually going anywhere. "Let me go."

"You don't want me to." I stroked him none too gently and he sighed, pressing into my hand. "You've been begging me for this since I got home."

"I haven't." He shivered. "Please, stop."

"You haven't given me a moment's peace." I nipped at his earlobe. "First you stole my keys --"

"I borrowed them. I'm sorry."

I ignored his protests; forgiving him would be beside the point. "-- and then you dragged Aimery into my bed --"

"I didn't think you'd mind!"

"And now you're lying and denying everything." I moved my hand to his chest to steady him and play with his nipples. "You're a wicked little boy. Turn over."

"Don't make me, Christophe." Jehan turned and hugged me, hiding his face in my shoulder. He was shivering again. "Please don't make me."

"Admit you've been awful or go home." I looked at the ceiling, trying to pretend that his wide eyes did not move me. They certainly did not inspire pity.

"Please." Jehan whimpered and put his hands on my shoulders to shake me. "Don't do this."

I took hold of his wrists and pulled them together over his head. "Do you want to go home?"

His pretty face was blotched with emotion, half feigned and half felt. I wanted to kiss him, to reassure him, to break from the game and hold him, but it pleased him to pretend to be afraid of me. He hesitated over my question, the last dignified escape. "No," he admitted, closing his eyes in shame. Whether it was real or imagined, or whether there was a difference, I couldn't have said. "I don't want to go home."

"Then do as I say." 

He hesitated a moment longer before he got up and lay over my lap, settling with his weight on his elbows and his knees and his ass raised up. His erection rested on my thigh. I ran my hand over the soft curve of his buttocks, appreciating the fine texture and the pale color. "You've earned this." I gave him a gentle swat, getting him used to the feeling. "Every second of it." And another. A light red began to rise in his skin.

Jehan sighed. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." After each sentence, I spanked him again, keeping him off balance from the irregular rhythm. "You decided to take my keys. You wanted me to find you naked, didn't you?" He whimpered. "I know you did. You wanted me to surprise you while you writhed for Aimery, while you pretended it was for him."

"That's not true." Jehan shivered and struggled, half-pretending he wanted me to let him go.

That earned him a harder strike. "Liar. You wanted to put on a show for me. And now you're doing it, aren't you? But not just for me. Everyone's watching you, _petit_. They can see how bright your ass is getting, and how much you want this."

"Please stop."

I laughed at his predicament, putting as much scorn into the sound as I could manage. "Why?"

"Please."

"Why should I, Jehan? You want this."

"No. No. Please." 

I might have believed him if he hadn't thrust against me with every word. Instead, I matched each of his thrusts with a slap and kept up the rhythm. "What if I'd brought home ten people? You'd let them all see you like this, whomever it was, wouldn't you? And more than that. I know you, Jehan. I know just how much this drives you mad and how much you want me to stop and fuck you. You want it, don't you?"

"Yes. Please --" His voice was growing hoarse. "Please, Christophe."

"Shameless boy. I could tie you to the bed right now and you'd beg us all for it."

"Yes. Oh, God." He tightened his hands in the bedspread and thrust harder, getting close to orgasm.

"Wouldn't you be pretty with your bright red ass in the air and your legs open wide, getting fucked hard and begging for it until we can't stand the sound and someone takes your mouth. I should have brought ten more for you, boy, so we could keep you on your knees all night long."

"Jesus, Christophe --" Jehan shuddered and came with a wail, lying on me heavily until the aftershocks faded. "Oh, my God." I helped him up and he leaned on my shoulder. His face was beet red and he was grinning. "You're a terror."

"So are you. And now we need a bath, too." I stood up and stretched.

"Are you really all right, Jehan?" Daniel asked. He and Aimery were sitting with their backs to the wall, arms around each other. I had expected something less passive of them than snuggling, but they seemed comfortable.

"Never better." Jehan washed himself off, wrinkling his nose at the mess. "God, Christophe, what a wreck you've made of me."

I grinned at him. "And you protested every bit of it, didn't you."

Aimery laughed. "You're utter reprobates, both of you."

"I'm sure you can recognize your own kind at a glance." I found Jehan a towel and traded it to him for the washcloth.

"It's a useful talent." Aimery stretched a little and dropped a kiss to Daniel's hair. "Poor Chris, are you all worn out now?"

"Only my hand." I shook it gently, exaggerating the exertion. "Why?"

Aimery chuckled. "I thought I'd inquire."

"As long as you don't want a spanking, I still have energy." I grinned at him.

"I --" Daniel hugged Aimery more tightly.

"I'd like to see you try it." Aimery bared his teeth in a mock snarl and embraced Daniel. "You all right?"

"Don't tempt me, Aimé." It was a joke, and we both knew it.

"I'm fine," Daniel mumbled.

"You're freezing," Aimery said, patting his shoulder, "and there's a perfectly good, completely empty bed over there. Let's get you warmed up, shall we?" He disentangled himself and stood, then offered Daniel a hand up.

Daniel stood. I could certainly see why he would be cold; he was quite thin. He followed Aimery to the bed and I put an arm around Jehan to kiss him and give them a minute to themselves. " _Chéri_. You're comfortable?"

He smiled. "I will be by tomorrow if I don't sit down too much."

"Is it that bad?"

"No, not at all. It's fine. It was splendid. Thank you." He kissed me tenderly. "But I am rather chilled, and -- you do have guests. Perhaps I ought to go." 

"If you like, _petit_. There's always tomorrow." 

He grinned. "Yes, and you did promise me." 

"So I did, wretch. Go on, then. Get dressed." I let him go and he started to separate out his scattered clothes from the general pile.

Aimery was half entwined with Daniel among the rumpled bedclothes, laughing softly. "There, _chéri_."

"It's nice to be warm. You were right."

"That happens occasionally," Aimery said cheerfully.

Daniel chuckled. "Quite often."

They murmured something else too softly for me to hear. Then Daniel put on a deliberately calm face and said, " _Cher_ , I came home with him, and I didn't have the first idea you'd be here. As long as he doesn't want to smack me, I don't mind."

Aimery laughed at that. "All right, that's fair."

"I already said I'm too tired for that." I went over to tousle Aimery's hair.

"Then I don't mind." Daniel shrugged.

"Eavesdropper," Aimery accused me, grinning.

"They're my eaves." I kissed Daniel's forehead. "Move over a bit?" I got into bed with them and put an arm around Daniel, who shivered.

"It's not much warmer yet," he said, and tucked his hands behind his head.

Aimery settled against his side, kissing his neck. "Better?"

"Some, yes."

I reached over and ran my hands down Aimery's back. "So."

"So. What exercises do you suggest to get the blood moving?"

I laughed. "That depends on how much -- exercise -- you did before I got home." Daniel buried his face in the pillow, blushing. Perhaps the frankness of the conversation bothered him.

"There was hardly time," Aimery retorted. He wound an arm around Daniel's waist, tugging him closer.

"Come now, cher, I've met you." I groped him lightly and kissed Daniel's shoulder. "You had all of five minutes."

"Hmph." Aimery was a trifle breathless. "Until I was interrupted. I prefer to do things properly."

"Well, now we've all the time in the world. What would you like to do properly?"

"I think Daniel thinks you're wholly depraved." Aimery reached across Daniel to tug me nearer. "Shall we convince him otherwise?"

Daniel snorted. "I know you're all depraved."

I smiled. "Then I don't know how we'd go about doing that."

"Or at least that we're well-intentioned." Aimery pressed a kiss to Daniel's throat. "Still cold, love?"

"I'm all right."

"Shall we let you sleep, then?" he asked, amused.

Daniel frowned. "Not in the middle of the bed, no. At least let me get out of your way."

I touched his shoulder. "Daniel. You're welcome here."

"If there's no one else around, I suppose I am." He pushed the covers back and sat up. "As things stand, I may as well go home."

Aimery caught at him, the laughter gone out of his face. "Don't, love. Stay."

"I don't want to be in the way." Daniel pushed Aimery's hands away.

I wrapped him in an embrace. "You're not in the way. Stay. Let us keep you warm if nothing else."

"Never," Aimery echoed. "Never that." He buried a kiss in Daniel's hair, hands resting on his shoulders. "Please, _chéri_."

"I'll go home, and you can keep on with your -- orgy. Or whatever it is."

"Daniel." Aimery looked stricken.

I let him go. "I won't try to keep you here if you don't want to stay."

"I didn't know it was going to be this strange." Daniel crossed his arms. "That's all."

Aimery embraced him again. "Everything's fine. Don't be angry, cheri, everything's all right. Look, if you want to go home, we will. All right? Kiss me, love."

Daniel sighed. "I should have gone home in the first place."

"Do you want to?" Aimery asked softly.

"God, you make everything so difficult." Daniel glared at the wall. " I can't think anymore. I don't know what I want."

"Then stay. Let me love you. Let us keep you warm." Aimery kissed him with all the meticulous attention of which he is capable on occasion.

Daniel embraced him and returned the kiss, though he did not entirely relax.

"I think I'll be going," Jehan said lightly. He had found all of his clothing and managed to dress nearly respectably, though he was a bit rumpled.

"It doesn't matter," Daniel said after a few moments. "I should go."

Jehan chuckled. "Don't worry, brother. It's not as if my evening was wasted." He kissed Daniel lightly, Aimery more lingeringly, and embraced me to murmur, "Tomorrow," before he kissed me with enough fervor to make me wish for the day to fly past in an instant. "Good night, _mes frères_. Enjoy yourselves."

"Good night, _cher_ ," Aimery said with a wistful smile.

"Until tomorrow, _petit_."

Jehan tipped his hat to me and left.

"I should go," Daniel said, sitting up part way. "I'll send him back here and apologize."

"Look, you." Aimery tackled him backward, half onto the pillows, half onto my lap. "If you go, I will go with you, and when we get home I will only take your clothes off again and not give them back, so you may as well save yourself a long walk in the cold."

Daniel blushed. "At least I wouldn't be wasting everyone's time."

I tousled his hair. "You're not. You won't."

"There." Aimery kissed him again. "You are outvoted. Stop worrying, my love."

Daniel hugged him. "I'll try."

"We can help." I rubbed his nipples lightly. "Just stop worrying, brother."

"All's well." Aimery settled down again, one arm slipping under Daniel's shoulders. 

"All right," Daniel said on a sigh, relaxing. "I'll just -- stay, then."

Aimery caressed him. "A splendid idea."

"You're handsome when you're not scowling," I told Daniel, and I kissed him lightly. He shivered and reached up to run a hand through my hair.

He smiled at me. "So are you."

I snorted. "Not in the least. Particularly not beside the two of you."

Aimery shook his head. "Flatterer."

"You fit together nicely." I shrugged. "And you're used to each other."

Daniel looked at Aimery in bemusement. "Well, of course we are."

I laughed. "Monogamist."

"How do you mean?" Daniel asked.

"Well -- you certainly spend a great deal more time together than I spend with any one other person, and you've long since learned each other's habits." I kissed Daniel's forehead. "And exactly what to do to drive each other to madness, I'm sure."

"Generally speaking, yes," Aimery shook his head. "What do you want, Chris?"

"To see the ways you -- please each other. And help, where it seems opportune."

Daniel blushed. "God."

I touched his cheek. "Don't think so hard, brother."

"It's all right, Daniel," Aimery said easily. "It's only me, after all."

"It's not only you." Daniel sat up. "That's what makes it harder."

I shook my head. "Stop worrying. Aimé, won't you help him with that?"

Aimery licked his nipple. " _Cher_ , it's all right."

Daniel bit his lip. "I -- I can try."

"Perhaps --" I considered them. "I don't think we ought to give him a chance to think."

"Certainly not." Aimery took Daniel's wrists in his hands and lay back, his head on the pillow. "Just relax, love." He nibbled on Daniel's thumb until his eyes closed.

"God, Aimery," he said hoarsely.

"Let me?"

Daniel chuckled ruefully. "As if I could ever resist you."

Aimery grinned. "Splendid. Turn around, then?"

"-- what?"

"Let me suck you, love."

Daniel blinked. "I --"

I sat up, having caught the meaning of Aimery's request. If that oblique phrasing was what Daniel was used to, then I felt constrained not to elaborate, but I embraced him and helped him turn to face me, toward the end of the bed. "Like this."

"Oh." He blushed again.

I kissed him and stroked him, anything to distract him from his self-consciousness. "It's all right. Just put your knee there -- yes, like that -- and shift sideways -- there."

"This is so awkward," Daniel protested.

Aimery reached up and pulled his hips down. "And so delightful."

Daniel shivered. "God, Aimery." He leaned forward, lying on Aimery's chest and bracing himself up on one elbow, and began to kiss Aimery's cock lightly.

I rubbed Daniel's lower back in small circles, admiring the deftness of his touches; with one hand, he teased the base of Aimery's erection, while he nuzzled and licked the upper half. From time to time, this was interrupted with a curse or a moan that drew my attention to Aimery, who was taking full advantage of his position to alternately lick the length of Daniel's cock and suck it into his mouth. I could not bear to watch for long before I retrieved a bottle of oil from the bedside and wet my fingers enough that they shone, but lightly enough that they would not drip. I stroked the cleft of Daniel's buttocks gently and eased a finger inside him bit by bit. He swore again and pressed into my hand. I kissed his lower back and tasted the sweat that began to to shine there, then wet another finger and added it. I began to move my fingers slowly in and out of him, listening to the changes in his breathing and the little wet noises of suction. When he thrust back against my hand in earnest, I slowed down. He speeded up and groaned, so I added a third finger and watched him shudder in indecision, unsure whether Aimery's mouth or my hand was more pleasurable from instant to instant.

"God, Christophe, I can't." he protested, kneeling up. "I'm sorry, Aimery --" Daniel shook his head. "I must be choking you."

Aimery touched his cheek. "It's fine."

"Should I stop?" I asked.

"No -- please don't." Daniel blushed. "I just -- not both at once." 

"Not like that, no." I slicked myself with the oil and set it aside. "Kneel over here, though, would you?" I let him go and he shuddered, then moved to the place I suggested. 

"What do you mean?"

"Here -- face away from me, and spread your legs again." His face went bright red, but he complied. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes. What are you --"

"Aimery." I gave him a hand to steady himself as he sat up. "If you'd like -- this might be easier to take."

He laughed and moved sideways so that he was lying on his side facing Daniel, his head lifted by one bent arm. "God, you're lovely, _chéri_ ," he said with a grin, speaking entirely to Daniel.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said, shivering, He reached down to touch Aimery's hair.

"I'm not sorry in the least." Aimery kissed his cock and began to nuzzle him again.

I nipped Daniel's ear to get his attention. "Are you all right?"

"I -- yes."

I put an arm around his waist for balance and knelt behind him. "Comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Good." I kissed the bruised spot on his neck I had begun earlier and started to push into him. 

"Christophe --" he reached back and wrapped his fingers around my side. "You'll -- you'll kill me."

I froze. "Does it hurt?"

"No." He rocked back onto me. "Don't stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes, damn it." He rocked again, harder, and I took him at his word. The soft sounds of Aimery's mouth disappeared under Daniel's cries. He tightened his grasp on my side until it was painful; I answered him by biting at his neck, darkening the mark there.

"Deep breaths," I counseled him, though I was half-gone myself and with far less reason.

"Oh, God, I can't." Daniel tangled one hand in Aimery's hair and leaned against me for balance, his breathing growing harsher with every thrust. "I can't --"

I shifted the arm around him until I could pinch one of his nipples in time to his desperate movements. He whimpered at that, driven past words by Aimery's mouth and the pressure of me inside him. I couldn't reassure him, for his desperate sounds and eager movements pushed me into the same incoherence. I could taste the salt of his sweat and feel the tight heat of him as he forced himself onto me. He shuddered and moaned and brought himself to a greater frenzy, almost enough to knock me backward. At the height of it, he came with a strangled shout that startled me into opening my eyes. A glimpse of Aimery with his lips pressed against the base of Daniel's cock, watching every movement with adoring attention, spurred me after. I clung to Daniel, sure for a mad moment that I could feel Aimery's tongue.

When I could see again -- a long interval, made longer by Daniel's still-labored breathing -- I kissed his shoulder softly. "Are you all right?"

"More than."

I let him go just enough to pull away from him and embraced him again. "Good."

"Yes, it was." Daniel yawned and kissed my cheek.

"Don't fall asleep yet." I tousled his hair. It had gone darker near the roots from sweat. "We've neglected Aimery."

"Take your time." Aimery was lounging on his side again, watching us with an entirely implausible air of laziness.

"We can't. Daniel will fall asleep. Lie down, Aimé?"

He grinned at me. "I am."

I rolled my eyes. "Properly. Head on the pillow, on your back."

"Oh," he said, and sat up. "Like this?"

"That's better." I kissed Daniel's cheek. "I think we owe him, don't you?"

"Yes." And he blushed again, unaccountably. After all we had just done, what was embarrassing about a mild question?

"Perhaps you ought to pick up where you left off, Daniel," I suggested.

He frowned, then smiled a little as he understood. "All right." He knelt between Aimery's legs and began to suck him again with the smoothness of long practice.

" _Chéri_ ," Aimery protested breathlessly.

"Don't worry." I patted his shoulder. "It won't be that easy. Hold on, Daniel -- give me a turn?"

He looked up, his lips wet, and sat back reluctantly. "If I must."

I kissed him, chasing the taste of Aimery deep into his mouth until he embraced me for balance. "Share with me, then."

He smiled. "Gladly."

Together, we settled onto our knees and licked wet stripes up the length of Aimery's cock. He laughed at first, but his amusement quickly changed to murmurs of pleasure. While Daniel hollowed his cheeks to tease a louder moan from Aimery, I licked my fingers and played with his nipples. Daniel waited until I had my mouth quite full to ask, "Where's the oil?" and I could only point. He worked a finger into Aimery and sucked him hungrily, leaving me little choice but to confound his work and draw him into another kiss.

It stretched on until Aimery cleared his throat and said, "What about me?"

"Oh," Daniel said absentmindedly, and pressed another finger into him before kissing me again. 

Aimery gasped and began to laugh. "Wretched."

"Perhaps we ought to let him come," I said to Daniel.

Daniel gave him a critical look. "He'd probably like that."

"Probably!" said Aimery incredulously. "Very much."

"Well, then." I let Daniel go and we resumed, making sure that Aimery could not think for a second. With four hands on him, teasing his nipples, scratching pale red lines down his chest, pressing inside him teasingly and then insistently, he writhed; with two mouths on him, nipping and sucking, teasing and licking, he could hardly lie still. Near the end, Daniel and I kissed each other again around the head of his cock, taunting one another and delaying Aimery a few precarious moments before he came at last, arching off the bed into Daniel's mouth.

Daniel kissed me again while Aimery recovered. I was nearly inspired enough to push him down and pull Aimery into a similar game, but we were interrupted by a voluminous yawn. "That was lovely," Aimery said contentedly. "Come and kiss me."

When I lay beside him, I realized how tired I was, and how late it must have been. "Perhaps we ought to go to sleep."

Daniel yawned. "Perhaps."

"Unless you've another idea?"

He laughed. "No, not tonight."

Aimery kissed me lightly and embraced Daniel. "Good night, then, loves."

I put an arm around him and squeezed Daniel's shoulder. "Good night."


	56. Distraction (Courfeyrac): May, 1832

One of the advantages of sleeping with women is that, when you tell them they're beautiful, they usually listen to you. When I try to say it to Audric, he snorts and swats at my arm, telling me to invest in spectacles.

"You _are_ ," I protest. "Quite intolerably handsome. Hasn't anyone ever told you?"

Audric laughs. "Yes. You. Repeatedly."

We're sitting on the edge of my bed in the warm lamplight, making our leisurely way toward nudity. "Well, there you are. I can't lie to you." Nor would, nor ever need to. Face of a thoughtful cherub, upturned for a kiss; soft brown hair like a halo, his eyes bright with amusement. Beyond handsome; adorable.

"Which is why I doubt your eyesight, _mon Aimé_."

"Nonsense. Ask Julien, he'll agree with me."

That was the wrong tack to take. His face clouds over. "If I could talk to Julien--"

"You wouldn't be here. I know." I kiss him again, to make him smile, but he only sighs, and leans against me when it's done. 

"I would have more important things to ask him."

"Such as?"

"Such as why he won't talk to me," Audric says unhappily. "Such as what in God's name he thinks he's doing with this. He frightens me, Aimery. It's exactly like before." In 1830, he means by that; nearly two years ago now. "Only worse, because now I know where he's headed. He looks straight through me, as though he's already got the damned gun in his hand."

Now is not the time to mention the box under my bed. "It can't be that bad, _chéri_. We came out of that all right, didn't we?"

He looks at me as though I've kicked him. "Daniel didn't."

"Daniel was fine. Doesn't even bother him when it rains."

"That's not the point."

"I know, I know. But you worry too much, all the same." Succumbing to temptation, I run my fingers through his hair. "Kiss me?"

Audric sighs again, and consents, embracing me as though afraid I'll turn to marble in his arms. His mouth tastes faintly sweet; the skin of his throat, faintly salt. My hands cradle his shoulders, silky skin over soft flesh over solid bone. On such nights he makes me hungry; I want to cover him with kisses, devour him.

He shivers, under these attentions. "God, Aimé."

"Dear one," I murmur against the hollow of his shoulder, "lovely one," and he tangles a hand in my hair by way of protest. 

"I am not. And you're trying to distract me."

Astute observation. "Do you mind very much?" 

"...no."

He smells clean and faintly musty, like earth, like laundered linen. His hands run lightly down my back, familiar territory, relearning the contours of my spine; he chuckles, half a heartbeat before he makes me shiver, anticipating my reactions to the second. There are, admittedly, times when it pays to be predictable.

"Don't get smug," I tell him, catching his ear between my teeth. He gasps, and laughs again, breathlessly. 

"You're terrible."

"Yes." Fingernails graze my skin, setting my heart racing. "God-- I know."

Poor Audric, he's all too easily distracted. It's what he comes to me for, after all; distraction and comfort, and perhaps to be spoiled a little. Loving Julien, I can well imagine, will take it out of a man, even one so devoted as Audric; and Julien in bed is a driven and demanding creature, unable to give as much as he takes. 

And God knows Audric deserves all the attention I can lavish on him, body and soul. I cling to him for a minute while a wave of dizzy desire breaks over me; then, as my mind clears, concentrate on kissing him. He sighs against my mouth as the tension leaves his shoulders, and when the kiss breaks, he's smiling. 

"Ah, _chéri_. You drive me quite out of my mind when you do that."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." I run my hands over his back, savoring the feel of his skin, caressing the hollow at the base of his spine. He shudders, burying his face in my shoulder. An exploratory finger slipped into the waistband of his trousers elicits a faint whimper, and I can't quite suppress a grin. "What's the matter?"

"Don't get smug," he retorts, and rakes his nails down my back again, making me gasp. "Just because you're irresistible--"

"So are you. Shall I prove it?"

"Mmm."

"You've still got your pants on," I point out, stroking him through the fabric, purely for the satisfaction of feeling him stiffen under my hand. His breath catches, and he steadies himself against my shoulder. "Lie back, would you?"

He takes a deep breath, and complies. Once he's stretched full-length across the rumpled covers, I lean over to unfasten his pants; he lifts his hips slightly to let me relieve him of them, and I am faced again with the miracle of Audric. Clothed, he's charming but faintly stodgy, faintly nondescript. Naked, he is magnificent.

I toss them onto the floor to join the promiscuous pile of waistcoats and shirts. The bed shakes slightly as he chuckles. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to pick up after yourself?"

"Never." I kiss him again, long and lingering, till we're both breathless. By then he's clinging to me, his body taut against mine. "Ah, now, really, love. I thought you were the patient one."

"Up to a point," he says huskily.

"Ah. Well, that's all that can be said of anyone, I'm sure."

"Mm."

His cheeks are pink. He's looking at me with tilted eyebrows, wry, affectionate; he knows full well how I enjoy teasing him to the brink of desperation, and damned if he isn't going to make me work at it. I run a hand down his side, kissing him again, and he slips an arm around my waist to pull me closer. His heart is beating hard; by the time we pause for breath, so is mine. 

"Now that," I say, "is an excellent start to an evening."

Audric laughs. "Oh, good. I'm glad you think so." He runs his fingers slowly through my hair, and it's all I can do to keep from purring. Instead, half-straddling him, I take steps to retaliate. 

"You're not naked," he points out after a minute or two.

"Not entirely."

"Ought to remedy that."

"Why?" I shift a little, letting cloth brush against sensitive skin; he bites his lip, and I grin at him. "All in good time."

"Not fair," he sighs, his hand lingering on the seat of my pants. "You're going to drive me mad."

I kiss him again, hard. "You say that, brother mine, as though it isn't mutual."

Audric blinks a few times, slowly, like a man regaining consciousness after a swoon. "Do I?"

"When I'm all but dying for the taste of you."

"Oh--" His eyes catch fire, as I intended; magic words, _I want you_. He trails a shaky finger upward along my spine. "Is that so?"

For answer I duck my head and kiss his throat, run my tongue along his collarbone and begin working my way downward. He laughs, and it turns into a sigh. "Ah, _cher_ \--" breaking off abruptly as I tease his nipple with teeth and tongue. He strokes my shoulders lightly, his breathing ragged. I take my time, breathing him in, revelling in the feel of him. So many of my nights are spent with Daniel, who remains rake-thin no matter what I do, that making love to Audric, who tends in the other direction, feels decadently luxurious. 

The thought of Daniel gives me a momentary pang; I should have given him more warning than this, before leaving him to spend the night alone. But Audric sighs just then, recalling me to the moment. 

"Aimé," he whispers.

"Beloved," I whisper back to him, smiling, before bending to take him in my mouth.

Sweet brother. Somewhere in the midst of it, I reach up to clasp his hand, as much for the simple comfort of the touch as to keep him from distracting me. The small urgent sounds he makes are doing enough of that. He arches toward me slightly; and on a perverse impulse I leave off and move up the bed to kiss his protests into silence. I shift a hand, and he groans against my mouth, knotting his fingers in my hair. Too late, I realize I'm still wearing pants, and they've become a decided inconvenience. I start to pull away, but Audric digs his nails into my shoulders and demands another kiss, and abruptly the world goes up in flame.

When it comes back, I am lying with my head on his shoulder, rocked by his deep breaths and my own. His skin is soft under my cheek; the air is heavy with spent passion. "You could warn a man," I say.

Audric chuckles. "I might say the same."

"My poor laundress."

"I'm sure she's seen worse."

"Ordinarily," I say, running a hand down his side, "I'm a bit more careful than that." I sit up a bit to finish undressing, belatedly and somewhat gingerly.

He blushes. "Sorry."

"It's _entirely_ your fault." I lean over to kiss him again. "For driving me wild with desire."

Audric shakes his head. "I think, my dear, we'll have to share the blame."

I settle back against him, into the familiar warmth of his arms. "Fair enough." The spring night, that was all afire so recently, has gone mild and gentle as water. Submerged in sleepy bliss, I drift away.


	57. Understanding (Enjolras): May, 1832

_There must be something to this,_ Daniel said earlier this evening. _More than what I think I know -- and I do love you, Julien, if not in the way other people do._

Nothing else he might have said could have moved me so deeply. It was so much of what I felt: that I had missed something, failed to understand something, that came naturally to Audric. And to Aimery. Like a gap in logic, like some deceptively simple exercise in mathematics, this intimacy eludes me. It is comforting to know that Daniel shares my bewilderment.

Do I love him? I cannot tell, even now when I lie beside him, skin against skin in the warm night. What I feel for him pales beside my love for Audric; but it burns brighter and far warmer than any feeling I have for my family, for all I call him my brother. Certainly it is more than friendship, or we would not be here together. 

Part of it, perhaps, is sympathy. I have seen the way he looks at Aimery, as if the sight were breath and blood to him, as if there were nothing else so wondrous in the world. I have suspected, and now I know, that his heart aches on nights like this as much as mine does. He knows what it is to love so much, and be so unable to let go.

I did not plan this. I did not mean -- be plain, Julien -- to seduce him. I was aching for Audric all evening, though it would never do to show it; and I kept my composure all too well, for he left lightheartedly with Aimery. Still, when I asked Daniel home with me, I thought only to offer him a place to sleep, a sympathetic ear, a respite from loneliness and nagging, furtive jealousy.

But sitting so close beside him, in the security of my home, with his arm about my shoulders -- in that moment, I could not keep from kissing him. His kisses were expert, but inexpressibly shy; his touch was sure but careful, as though he feared to offend. Only at the last did he clutch at me suddenly, as passion overcame caution, and the suddenness of it sent me over the brink, and he held me tenderly, still gasping for breath, while I shuddered against him, and then we were still.

_I love you_ , he said afterward. He said it laughing, but sincerely, and I did not know how to answer. Is this love? Affection, and trust, and sudden, fleeting, inexplicable desire? 

He is handsome, though I never particularly noticed it; all the more so now, with the paint-streaks in his hair bleached by moonlight, and the tension in his face eased by sleep. It is an understated beauty, as everything about him is modest, unassuming. I think now that none of us have appreciated this brother of ours as he deserves.

Kissing his forehead as he sleeps, I promise both of us that this, too, will change.


	58. Reciprocity: May, 1832

May has fallen upon Paris with bouquets of flowers in every cafe and singing birds in the trees. The nights are warm and full of laughter -- or, at least, for the young and lucky, they are. On one such night, Combeferre and Courfeyrac go off together early in the evening. They had not meant to prompt their friends into following suit, perhaps, but on this spring night, few of their otherwise devoted compatriots have the patience for politics. Enjolras is one of the few. He remains at the table where he had been sitting and reads a book. Feuilly may or may not be similarly devoted, but if he is not inclined to discuss laws, he is at least willing to read quietly in company rather than make his way homeward when there is doubtless company there.

After a while, Enjolras pushes the book aside with a sigh, resting his head in his hands.

Feuilly looks up and frowns slightly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," without a great deal of conviction.

"All right." He looks back at his book with a slightly embarrassed expression.

Enjolras straightens, and sits back with an air of determination. "Are you?"

Feuilly blinks at him. "More or less."

Enjolras half-smiles. "More than less, I hope."

Feuilly shrugs. "I wouldn't say that, today."

"I'm sorry," gently.

"It's hardly your fault." Feuilly looks away.

"Even so." Enjolras studies him a moment, then glances back at his book.

"What's wrong?" Feuilly asks, softly. "I mean -- if you want to talk, I'll listen."

"Nothing. I-- Nothing. I'm sorry, I don't mean to distract you."

"It's all right," softly. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather talk than read?"

"I can't look at this damned thing another minute," Enjolras admits. "But that doesn't mean I have to bother you, does it."'

"You're not bothering me."

"If you say so."

Feuilly closes his book. "I do say so. It's not like I have anywhere to go right now in any case -- I mean --" he blushes. "I'm sorry."

Enjolras smiles at him ruefully. "Neither have I. It's all right."

Feuilly blinks. "You could go home," mildly.

"Yes, but there's no need." And, more seriously, "I'm sorry."

Feuilly stands. "It's all right, I said -- Julien --" the last more softly. "Ah, God, I hate nights like this."

"I'm sorry," Julien says again, and looks up at him wryly. "I should have let you alone. It doesn't do to dwell on it."

Daniel frowns. "As if I could stop --" he looks away. "I --"

"I know," softly.

Daniel bites his lip. "I think I need to get out of this cafe." He glances at Julien. "Walk with me?"

Julien hesitates a split second, then, "All right." He pushes to his feet.

Daniel smiles fleetingly and picks up his book. "Not that I know where I want to go, particularly."

Julien collects his own book, and comes over to join him. "Under the circumstances," lightly, "it's only fair of me to offer you a place to sleep."

Daniel blushes. "You needn't."

"I know I needn't." A moment's pause. "And you needn't accept, of course."

"If you want me to, I suppose I don't mind." Daniel studies the floorboards.

Julien touches his shoulder fleetingly. "Shall we walk for a while, and see where we end up?"

Daniel stares at him a moment, swallows, then says, "All right."

Julien nods once, and heads for the door.

Daniel shakes his head and follows him.

Outside, Julien seems to gain confidence. He sets off up the street for all the world as though he knows where he's going.

Daniel walks beside him and glances at him every few steps as if unsure

whether Julien will turn around or continue on with him.

After a minute or two, Julien says again, mildly, "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

A graceful shrug. "That this evening isn't more pleasant for you?"

Daniel pauses. "Julien, it's not your responsibility."

"I know. Even so."

"You don't have to -- to make it up to me."

It is Julien's turn to pause. "How so?"

"You didn't have to invite me home with you, _mon frère_ ," softly. "And if you want to retract that offer, I'll not hold you to it."

"Why? It's no trouble."

Daniel blushes. "It's up to you. That's all."

Julien stops to look at him squarely. "What's the matter?"

Daniel looks away from him for a moment before returning his gaze. "Nothing's wrong. You surprise me a little, but not in a bad way. After all, it's only logical you should want company." Someone else might say this with an edge in his voice, but Daniel does not. He smiles and clasps Julien's shoulder. "I appreciate it."

After a moment Julien returns the gesture, smiling a bit. "Don't mention it."

Daniel grins at him. "All right, I won't. Shall we go?"

"By all means."

Daniel sets off again, looking much more cheerful and relaxed. When they arrive, Julien's mood seems dampened a little. He unlocks the door silently, eyes downcast. Daniel does not seem to notice this change in Julien's mood, or if he does, he reacts only by smiling at him and saying, "Thank you -- again."

Julien returns the smile perfunctorily. "Not at all, _mon ami_."

Once they are inside, Daniel spreads his arms and offers a hug.

Julien blinks at him for a moment, then embraces him readily.

"It's very kind of you."

"It's all right, Daniel, really."

"Yes, but -- still."

Julien shakes his head. "Don't worry so much."

Daniel lets him go. "I will try not to."

"All right." Julien keeps a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then lets it fall.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" Daniel looks away from him, embarrassed again.

"Is it?"

"Do you like it, then? A vacation of sorts --"

Julien blinks at him, then turns away. "I didn't mean that."

"I know you didn't. I'm sorry. I just don't know how to talk about this, really."

"We needn't."

Daniel blushes. "Perfectly true. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Julien says mildly.

"All right." Daniel fidgets with the corner of the book he's been carrying.

"Sit down, won't you?"

"All right." Daniel pulls out a chair from one of the desks in the room and sits in it, then glances at Julien again. "I don't mean to make this awkward."

Julien looks at him wryly. "You're apologizing again."

Daniel blushes. "It's a terrible habit."

"So it is." Julien puts an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Daniel blinks at him and says nothing.

Julien blinks back, then outright laughs. "All right. I'll stop if you will."

Daniel thumps him on the shoulder. "I'll try," chuckling.

"Agreed." Julien smiles, and lets him go, pulling the other chair over.

"I don't know how -- or why -- I started apologizing so much," half-teasing. "After all, I rarely do anything worth being contrite for."

"Really? You're better than most of us, then," ruefully.

Daniel frowns. "I doubt you're half as bad as you think, Julien."

Julien shrugs. "I've often done things I shouldn't have."

"Yes, but did they hurt anyone?"

"I don't know."

Daniel touches his shoulder. "You probably help people a great deal more than you hurt them. You're a good man."

Julien looks away. "One can only try."

"I don't doubt that you succeed."

Julien reaches up to take his hand, silent.

"It's all right," Daniel says lightly.

"Is it?"

"It seems so to me."

Julien hesitates a moment, then leans over to embrace him again.

Daniel returns the embrace.

Julien leans against him with a barely audible sigh.

"Thank you for inviting me," Daniel says again.

"You're entirely welcome."

Daniel chuckles. "Thank you."

After a moment, Julien looks up at him, oddly hesitant.

Daniel blinks. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I..." Julien trails off, and kisses him softly.

Daniel freezes. "I -- _mon ami_ , you needn't --"

"I know." Julien blinks at him, and then, abruptly, goes scarlet. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't--"

Daniel is also blushing. "If you want to -- I -- I just never thought you would, particularly -- I mean -- not with me, in any case."

Julien shrugs, not quite looking at him, but his voice is steady. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I just never considered it."

"Neither did I, _mon frère_." Julien touches his cheek lightly. "I-- should I let you alone, then?"

Daniel looks at him for a moment. "I suppose -- if you want company, I can do that. Just -- he glances away. "Please don't expect too much of me."

Julien lets him go. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's all right. I don't mind." Daniel touches his shoulder. "I just don't know what you expect of me at all."

Julien looks away, coloring. "I don't know."

Daniel nods. "All right. If you don't mind -- I --" he puts an arm around Julien again.

"Why would I mind?" Julien says, mostly to the floor, but he reaches up to take Daniel's hand in his.

"I don't know, _mon frère._ " Daniel squeezes his fingers.

Julien kisses him again, more confidently.

Daniel returns the kiss after hesitating a moment. Once he relaxes slightly, he seems to be enjoying himself.

After a minute or two, Julien remarks, almost steadily, "This probably isn't the best place to do this."

"Probably not." Daniel kisses his cheek lightly. "We could move."

"True." Julien pauses a moment before standing.

Daniel stands and embraces him again. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Are you?"

"Yes, I think so."

"All right." Julien kisses him again lightly, and guides him toward the bed.

Daniel gives him a somewhat weak smile and sits. "I -- God, this is terribly embarrassing, _mon frère_."

Julien frowns. "I'm sorry."

"I'm just not used to this. At all, really --" Daniel puts his head in one hand. "I should be quiet and -- and try to relax, shouldn't I."

"You don't have to do anything." Julien sits down beside him at a decent distance.

"That would be cowardly of me." Daniel moves over so that their legs are almost, but not quite touching.

"No." Julien contemplates the floor.

Daniel kisses his cheek. "It's all right."

"Daniel--" Julien returns the kiss, and looks at him soberly. "It's all right to refuse. You're not obligated."

"I know that." Daniel hugs him and buries his face in Julien's shoulder. "I do know. Just -- there must be something to this -- more than what I think I know -- and I do love you, Julien, if not in the way other people do."

Julien laughs, sounding a little stricken. "Ah, God, brother." He hugs Daniel tightly. "Is that what you're thinking?"

"Part of it. And I'm sure you've been told this before, but you're lovely, _mon ami_." Daniel blushes.

"For God's sake." Julien chuckles again, and kisses his cheek. " _Mon ami_ , I--"

"You are," calmly, as one states an incontrovertible fact.

"If you say so." He traces the line of Daniel's jaw with one finger. "I don't think I can help you understand any more than you already do."

Daniel shivers. "I don't know. But it probably can't hurt - and if you want to --"

"Do you?" Julien returns evenly, though his eyes are wistful. "I already pressed you into this once."

"I think I was someone else, then." Daniel pauses, then kisses him in earnest. Julien shivers, and returns the kiss, knotting a hand in the back of Daniel's shirt. Daniel embraces him with a sigh.

After a moment, breathlessly amused, "I think you must have been."

Daniel blushes. "It was a long time ago."

Julien kisses him again, a little shyly.

Daniel moves a bit closer to him. "It's all right."

"It does seem to be," Julien agrees.

"At least -- this much is." Daniel glances away again. "I'm sorry."

Julien pokes him. "Don't be."

Daniel winces. "What?"

"You're apologizing again."

"Oh. All right. I didn't notice." Daniel kisses him.

Julien leans into the kiss with a small sigh.

"Ah," afterward. "I didn't think you -- meant this, when you invited me." Daniel blushes. "I mean, at first I did, but I decided you didn't."

Julien gives him a bemused smile. "I didn't think I did, either."

"Oh. All right." Daniel kisses him again.

Julien acquiesces nearly cheerfully. After a moment he breaks the kiss, his hand straying to Daniel's collar. "May I?"

"All right," breathlessly.

Julien kisses his cheek, fingers tugging gently at fastenings. After a moment he slides a hand tentatively under Daniel's shirt, caressing his shoulder. Daniel sighs and embraces him. "Oh --"

"Hmm?" softly.

Daniel blinks at him a bit. "I think this could be quite pleasant, _mon ami_."

Julien blinks back, his face a little flushed. "Ah, good. That's reassuring."

Daniel puts a hand to his collar. "Do you mind?"

Julien's breath catches. "Not at all."

"All right." Daniel begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"God, _mon frère_." Julien kisses him fleetingly, stroking the back of his neck.

"Hmm?"

He shivers. "You're rather lovely yourself."

Daniel laughs. "I disagree."

"Kiss me again?" He complies and slides a hand inside Julien's shirt. Julien clings to his shoulders a moment as though afraid of falling, then presses closer.

"I --" Daniel pauses and looks at him a moment, then starts to laugh.

Julien goes scarlet. "What?"

"It's all madness," Daniel explains, still laughing, "And, good God, am I lucky. You are -- so lovely." He glances away for a moment. "And I'm lucky."

"You're absurd," Julien says wryly, and hugs him again.

"Perhaps," mildly. "I don't know. You make me want to draw."

"What?" bewildered this time.

"Because I can't sculpt," complacently.

"I-- for heaven's sake."

Daniel kisses his cheek. "Perhaps I'll talk you into it, sometime."

Breathlessly, "I suppose that's only fair."

"How do you mean?" before kissing him again.

But Julien's only response is a small, impassioned noise and a redoubled effort to get his shirt off.

Daniel clings to him. "God --"

"Please." Julien kisses the base of his throat.

"What, _mon ami_?"

"I--" He closes his eyes a moment. "I can't think."

"Oh." Daniel pauses a moment. "All right."

Julien runs a hand down his back. "I don't particularly want to."

Daniel shivers. "Oh. Then you needn't, I suppose." He gives Julien an oddly shy smile. "I don't want to think right now, either." The kiss that follows this is in stark contrast to his apparent hesitation of a moment before.

"Good," Julien murmurs, and embraces him again purposefully.

* * * * *

The next day is a Sunday, and Audric does not return home until mid-morning. When he does, he is rather surprised to find that Julien is still asleep in bed, and even more surprised that he has his arms around Daniel.

This gives Audric a moment's pause, during which time Daniel wakes up, blinks at Julien, then realizes Audric is there and blushes. "Good morning," he says, very quietly.

Audric looks out the window, his mouth set in a firm line. "Good morning." 

Julien stirs, blinking fuzzily at Daniel's shoulder, and then squints past him. " _Chéri_ ," which is more of a greeting than he would ordinarily give Audric in front of company, but then he doesn't appear to be entirely awake yet.

"Good morning," Audric says coldly, not looking at either of them.

"I'm sorry," Daniel says, reaching for his shirt. "I'm going."

"Thank you." Audric shakes his head. "I don't know why you didn't earlier."

"Audric." Leave it to Julien to achieve that note of frosty rebuke, even half-asleep and naked. And then, more gently, "Good morning, Daniel. We'll see you tonight, I expect."

Daniel nods, though he seems quite occupied in dressing as quickly as he can.

Audric glares out the window and doesn't acknowledge that Julien said anything.

Julien leans back against the pillow, rubbing his eyes.

Daniel dresses very hastily while Audric attempts to pretend that he is not there. In a few minutes, Daniel is ready to go. He stands, runs a hand through his hair nervously, and says, "Have a good morning, then."

Julien gives him that grave, gentle look he has in place of most people's smiles. "And you." A barely perceptible glance at Audric. "Give Aimery my regards."

"I shall." Daniel glances at him with a ghost of a smile, then opens the door.

"Goodbye," Audric says coldly.

"Goodbye," Daniel returns, and goes out.

When the door has shut, Julien stretches. "Did you sleep well?"

"More or less." Audric turns back and waves a hand. "What was all that?"

"All what?" Julien sits up. "Could you hand me my shirt?"

Audric picks it up from the floor and throws it at him. "What was -that-? What was he doing here?" as if it wasn't perfectly clear.

Julien refuses to be ruffled. "Spending the night." He pulls the shirt on efficiently, rubs his eyes again and swings his feet out of bed. "Since Aimery had company."

"That's --" Audric turns red and looks out the window again. "Damn it."

"Simple kindness to a sworn brother." Julien looks at him sharply. "Perhaps, since you wrote the rules, you would care to tell me what I should have done instead."

"Kindness -- you didn't have to, it would have been all right."

"Really? Thank you for enlightening me. I'm sure you know far better than I do how Daniel feels when his beloved is otherwise occupied."

"God, Julien, you could have at least warned me," more brokenly than angrily.

"I suppose I could." Julien starts looking for his pants. "Ah, yes. Pardon me for interrupting you, gentlemen, let me politely avert my eyes while I inquire, do you mind very much if I and the other friend of ours left out in the cold this evening spend the night together instead of staring at our separate ceilings? Have we your permission? Splendid. Carry on. I'll just see myself out."

"That's not fair, damn it." Audric turns back to glare at him. "I told you where I was going. I could have left you to do whatever the hell you wanted until gone noon if you had told me."

"And spared your sensibilities? Poor Audric. What a shock it must be to you."

"You can do whatever you like," bitterly. "I'll see you later. Chase after him if you like, you can guess where he's going." Audric, paying very little attention to the fact that Julien is not yet attired, opens the door.

"I can guess where you're going, too," sharply. "One wonders when Aimery manages to sleep."

"I'm not going anywhere in particular," at least as sharply. "I'm leaving you the hell alone." Audric goes out and slams the door.

* * * * *

Audric returns late in the day, perhaps an hour before the time when he would need to leave again if he were going to the meeting. He tries his key in the door, finds that it had been open, and enters rather tentatively.

Julien is sitting quietly at his desk, with his head in his hands, for all the world as though he's been there all day. He does not seem to notice when the door opens.

"I'm sorry," Audric says, though he does not sound entirely earnest. There is something detached and rehearsed about his words. "I shouldn't have been upset with you, and you had every right to be angry with me."

Julien shrugs slightly.

"I don't know what more to say."

"How long did it take you to come to that conclusion?" From anyone else, it might be resentful, but Julien's voice is merely faint and tired, nearly disinterested.

"Damn it." Audric turns away from him. "Do you want me to lie, to tell you that it didn't infuriate me the way you've been lying to me and telling me that really, love, truly, _chéri_ , it's not a problem? I can lie if you would rather hear that -- do whatever the hell you want, Julien, and I'll do the same, but what kind of love is that?"

That penetrates the indifference, at least. "I never told you anything of the kind. When I leave the choice to you, when I refrain from making demands on you to constrain you, you choose to do what you know, you _know_ , Audric, that I wish you would not do."

Audric puts his head in one hand. "And yet you've done it. Or was it just too cold in here, last night?"

"For one night," Julien says precisely, still not looking up, "I put my comfort -- and Daniel's -- ahead of your feelings. Since that is what you and Aimery do on a regular basis, I assumed you wouldn't be outraged."

"If you want me to stay, ask it of me. Damn it, I don't know why you won't, if it bothers you so much." Audric shakes his head. "And was it only one night? Don't tell me, I don't want to hear the answer, you'll just say what you think I want to hear. I don't understand."

Silence for a moment. Then: "Get out of here."

Audric blinks at him. "What?"

Julien raises his head, then, and glares at him with reddened eyes. "If you think that of me, then get out. I don't want to speak to you. You do exactly as you please, you leave me alone, and expect me to sit here with my hands folded waiting for you like a betrayed wife? Go to hell."

"Julien," weakly. "I've told you from the start -- tell me to stop, and I will. And you never did. That's not fair. You can't be upset with me for that."

"The hell I didn't. I asked you-- and you did, yes, and you hated every minute. I told you it bothered me. I will not hold you here against your will, and I will not be responsible for actions you take freely. If you didn't know I would rather have had you here last night, then you didn't choose to know. And you have no right, none, to go flying into a temper when you leave me alone and I take comfort where I can find it." Julien blinks swiftly. "There was a time when you asked _me_ to stay."

"And now you want me to go?" Audric gives him a stricken look. "Beloved, please, I would do anything for you, but don't ask that."

Julien's scowl does not lighten. "Because you have to sleep somewhere when he's busy, is that it?"

"Because I love you, and I would do anything to make you happy, whether you believe that or not."

"Except grant me the same right you assume for yourself." Julien looks away. "If you're not content with me, then don't expect me to be content with half of you."

"If you're not content with me, tell me." Audric runs a hand through his hair. "I never know if you're angry, I hardly know if you're happy anymore. You don't smile, you never laugh, and you -- you want me to go. Would it make you happy if I left?"

"No," softly.

"But it doesn't make you happy to have me here, either."

Julien's voice catches. "Is that what you think?"

"I don't know. You won't tell me. I don't know why you can't tell me to stay, if that's what you want. I didn't think you needed me every minute -- or someone -- it's been so long since you, since I knew you wanted someone else, I thought everything was all right." Audric looks at the floor. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Julien closes his eyes. "I never wanted anyone else." And, after a moment, carefully, "I won't tell you to stay, because I won't tell you to do anything. You know I wish you would. The rest is your affair. I don't know how much clearer I can make it."

"If you didn't want him, why was he naked?" sharply. 

Julien flinches, but: "No. You haven't the right, Audric. It goes both ways or not at all."

"Don't lie to me. Not to make me feel better, not to make me stay -- whatever it is." Audric shakes his head. "I don't, I couldn't condemn you for wanting someone else, but I want to know about it."

"I don't lie," Julien says coldly. "How have you lived with me for five years and not learned that? I don't want Daniel. I don't love Daniel. If you had come home to me last night, I would have turned him out in a minute."

Audric blinks at him. "That would have been terribly inhospitable. _Chéri_ \-- don't be angry at me, please. I'll stay with you until you can't bear me anymore if you want me to. I love you. Don't be upset."

"Then don't--" Julien puts his face in his hands. "Stop blaming me for things you do. Stay if you want to. Or go, and let me manage the best I can. But don't fume at me about it."

"I'll stay," Audric promises fervently. "I never meant to hurt you. Never that. I'm sorry."

Julien looks up, and there are tears on his cheeks. "I-- God, Audric--"

"I promise --" Audric holds out a hand to him. "I won't -- unless you decide you'd rather have Daniel," half-teasing.

Julien catches at his hands and rises swiftly. "That's not funny."

Audric hugs him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it seriously."

"Good," burying his face in Audric's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," again, softly.

"It's all right-- just--"

"What, love?"

Julien's fingers caress his shoulder over and over as though memorizing it. "Love you."

"I love you, too. Is this so odd?"

But Julien only shivers, and holds him tighter.

Audric kisses his cheek. "It's all right."

Julien returns the kiss. "I never wanted anyone but you," he says again, but this time it has a peculiar emphasis, a weight of unspoken meaning. Then he kisses Audric properly.

After the kiss, Audric says, "I'm sorry, love."

"Shhh." Julien smooths his hair. "All right."

"I should never have asked you to do any of it."

Julien hugs him tightly. "There's no use in that."

"I'm sorry." Audric sighs.

Julien shrugs, with the fatalism that comes over him now and again. "I would rather it was Aimery than someone else, someone I didn't know."

Audric clings to him. "Beloved, I would never leave you -- never."

"Shh," Julien says again, softly. "Come to bed."

"We'll be late," Audric objects.

"Not that late," Julien murmurs, and kisses him intently.

Audric tangles his fingers in Julien's hair. "Ah, beloved."

Julien makes a small breathless noise, and buries his face in Audric's shoulder. " _Cher._ "

"I'm not going anywhere," softly.

"Good." Julien kisses him again.

"I love you," between kisses.

Julien knots a hand in the back of Audric's jacket. After a moment, breathlessly, "Bed."


	59. Escapism (Combeferre): May, 1832

Another night of trying to forget what the words "gun" and "ammunition" and "death" sound like in Julien's voice; another night with Aimery, wishing that sweat would wash me clean of the sins I commit in his arms. Sometimes I hate him for not caring, for smiling and laughing at revolutions that seem all too real and frightening to me. But I need him too much to hate him, really, and if I let myself be angry at him, that is the beginning of it, and I will end on the street, walking away from everyone I know and love. Everyone.

Better to kiss him and let him change the subject from war to love. Better by far to let him take off my pants and smile at me than to ask him hard questions. Arguments will bring me nothing but pain. I don't have to hurt with his hands, his lips on my body.

My dreams have been growing uglier of late, but when I wake in the night he is there and real. At some point he must have woken, for he is clean now, and so am I. Only my thoughts are dingy and dark with hopelessness, but I bury my face in his hair. He smells alive; he smells like love. I can sleep in his arms.

In the morning, I wake in a daze of pleasure. Perhaps he knew I had had nightmares; perhaps he is only being kind. Whatever the reason, he laughs when I open my eyes and speeds up his hand as he moves to kiss me. He will not accept the same in return, which seems odd at first, but less so when I find that I am falling asleep again.

We eat lunch together, talking of things that don't matter, and then I go home.

I thought --

I thought that Julien had tired of playing games, as he has tired of laughing and tired of smiling and tired, these last months, of making love. Perhaps he has only tired of giving me these things, and has decided to share them with Daniel. I would accuse him of it, but I am too angry to see. If I stay, I will shout, or I will hurt him. I want to do both.

The anger does not fade until I have walked the streets until my feet ache. I go home, then, and we resume the argument. It is not a debate. Nothing is solved, but nothing is ever solved between us, only pushed away so that we can continue.

But when he lets himself forget that he is upset, his lips are as soft as ever as they move against mine, and his body almost as familiar, almost as anxious for reassurance as my own. There are no marks on his neck or shoulders, nothing to say that he has made love to someone else but a green smudge on the pillowcase and the burning memory of fury in my heart. I am not that gentle; the golden light of evening slants through the window and touches the beginnings of a livid bruise on his neck, low enough to hide under his collar. The light red lines on his shoulders will fade sooner than the mark on his hip, but even when that is gone I will remember how angry I was, and I will remember my reckless promise not to leave him.

If he talks of battles, I must forget that, or I will shout at him. I cannot shout at him; I love him. I swear under my breath as we dress. There is a tender place that will be purple by morning, just under my cravat. For this war, whenever it comes, he is mine, but I am his as well. It might have been more sensible to have left when he told me to go, but I want him, I need him too much to go. To sleep in my own bed, too far from him to hear him breathing --

I would rather march into battle and be shot as it begins. Which is just as well, as it seems more likely with each passing day.


	60. Glimmers: June, 1832

Although there are perhaps fifty men in the street, Prouvaire does not seem to have any difficulty navigating among them to find Bossuet. The barricade is, for the most part, complete: a wild array of omnibus, paving stones, and tables that seems similar to a child's sofa-cushion fort, without the charm. Bossuet is near one end, conversing amiably with a man whose name Prouvaire does not know. "Théophile?" Prouvaire asks, most politely, as he approaches. "May I interrupt?"

Bossuet blinks. "Of course, Jehan." He waves to the other fellow, and comes over to put an arm around Prouvaire's shoulders, still a trifle too cheerful.

Prouvaire gives him a wide-eyed, earnest look. "I need to talk to you in a more secluded location, Théo."

Bossuet laughs. "Good God, such as where, the cellar? the roof?"

Prouvaire frowns. "Come down the street with me a bit. We're not locked in -- and we'll be back, won't we?"

"Should think so, unless you want to miss everything." His arm drops to Prouvaire's waist. "All right, all right. Lead on."

Prouvaire's destination is apparently a small alcove between buildings, not terribly far down the Rue Mondetour. "I'm sorry," he says softly, pausing in this somewhat dark and decidedly damp location. He hugs Bossuet. "I just -- needed to see you for a few minutes."

Bossuet hugs him tightly in return. "I'm right here, _petit._ "

"Yes, but --" Prouvaire reaches up to tangle his fingers in Bossuet's thinning hair and kiss him soundly.

"Ah," after a flurried minute or two. "Well, yes."

"I love you," softly, "and I will love you, whatever happens today."

Bossuet touches his cheek lightly, sobering. "I love you, too, _cher_. I can't think what might happen to alter it."

"Nothing will change the fact that I love you," Prouvaire says with the conviction of the young romantic. "But everything else may change. In any case --" he kisses Bossuet again, at some length.

Bossuet pulls him close, running fingers through his hair.

"I love you," Prouvaire says again. There is a little desperation in his voice.

"And I love you, little brother. Shh. Don't fret."

"I'm not fretting much." Prouvaire kisses his cheek. "We should get back, I suppose."

"Probably." Bossuet fails to let him go, returning the kiss instead.

Prouvaire sighs lightly and relaxes into his embrace. "If you keep doing that --"

"What, _mon chéri_?"

"You'll have us both in trouble." Prouvaire kisses him again.

"Shouldn't think so," Bossuet murmurs. "Who's going to come all the way over here?"

Prouvaire blushes. "Anyone looking for a quiet corner?"

Bossuet laughs at that. "How many of those d'you suppose there are going to be?"

Prouvaire grins. " _Mon chéri_ , I doubt that our friends are so very dedicated to this rebellion that they will not steal a moment or two." He touches Bossuet's cheek, and adds, for the sake of precision, "Except, perhaps, Julien."

Bossuet chuckles. "No doubt. --Kiss me again?"

Prouvaire complies gladly. After a few moments, he says, "Well -- we ought to go. Unless we're staying here a bit longer."

"Mm." Bossuet runs his fingers through Prouvaire's hair again. "Are we?"

"I don't know." Prouvaire gives him a long look. "If we go, we'll have to behave."

"True. --I don't think they'll miss us, just yet."

"Probably not."

Bossuet kisses him yet again.

Prouvaire makes a small noise and clings to him. "Ah, love. I want --" he breaks off. "I want far too much."

"Really?" with an irrepressible grin.

"You know how you affect me," Prouvaire says into his ear in a whisper somewhere between sultry and hoarse.

"Really," Bossuet murmurs in quite another tone, fidgetting with Jehan's collar.

"Théo --" softly.

"Hmm?"

"Would you rather go?" Prouvaire asks.

"Not particularly," blinking at him. "Would you?"

"No."

"All right."

Prouvaire blinks at him. "It's just --"

"Just what, dearest one?"

Prouvaire frowns and drops his gaze. "I don't know." He kisses Bossuet again.

Bossuet returns the kiss briefly, then pulls back to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"I suppose I'm frightened," Prouvaire says in a mild tone. In an effort to change the subject, he slides his hand down Bossuet's trousers.

A slight gasp. "--It will be all right."

"Probably." Prouvaire kisses him, yet again.

* * * 

As the evening wears on and the conversation wanders further afield, Courfeyrac leans against Bahorel's shoulder. "Do you know," he murmurs, "I'm rather abominably fond of you?"

Bahorel puts his arm around Courfeyrac's waist. "That's an interesting coincidence. I happen to be quite enamored of you, as well."

"Are you? That's good." Aimery has not seemed particularly tense all day, but now, with a sigh, he relaxes noticeably.

Christophe murmurs in his ear, "Perhaps we can take a bit of a walk."

Aimery grins quietly. "Thought you'd never ask."

Christophe stands and offers Aimery a hand up. "You could have asked," he says, mildly for Christophe.

"I was about to, if it didn't occur to you." Aimery climbs to his feet.

"I see." Christophe grins and puts his arm around Aimery's shoulders.

"I thought you would." Aimery lets his hand linger in the vicinity of Christophe's waistband a moment, before shifting it somewhere more decent. "I don't think there's anyone around the corner."

"No? And how likely is there to be anyone around the corner in the next half-hour or so?"

Aimery shrugs. "Not very?"

"Fair enough." Christophe ruffles Aimery's hair. "As long as you don't mind terribly if we're, ah, surprised."

Aimery ducks. "It's a day for taking chances. I'll risk it."

"All right." As soon as they are around the corner, Christophe kisses Aimery thoroughly and with great conviction.

With a slight involuntary gasp, Aimery leans into the kiss, knotting a hand in the back of Christophe's clothing.

They find the wall a few moments later. Christophe breaks the kiss to grin at him in the moonlight. "By the way, Aimé? You're wonderful."

"So are you," rejoins Aimery, a little out of breath. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Thank you," Christophe says, and though his tone is solemn, he is grinning. "Are you sure you don't want to take a longer walk?"

Aimery pushes a hand through his hair, smiling back at him. "If you like."

"I wouldn't want to distress our friends." Christophe backs up a step or two.

"Of course not." Aimery straightens. "After you."

Christophe puts an arm around his waist. "Let's go together. _Égalité_ , after all."

Aimery laughs. "All right, all right."

The people who live in these streets have all gone to bed early, if they are not out with the republicans. It is not difficult for Christophe and Aimery to find a dark corner between houses, where the random passerby, even if there were any on this night, would not see them. Once they are thus concealed from all but the most dedicated or curious of prying eyes, Christophe takes the opportunity to kiss Aimery at great length.

Aimery returns the kiss with equal dedication. He reaches up to tangle a hand in his hair, about halfway through; the other has already found its way down the back of Christophe's pants.

"God, Aimé," Christophe says appreciatively. "You have been waiting for this."

"Rather," Aimery agrees. "Frivolous of me, I know."

"Better than waiting for the Guard to show up, I'd say." Christophe unbuttons Aimery's trousers with practiced fingers. "And did you come prepared?"

Aimery sighs, running his fingers through Christophe's hair. "When did I have the time? I had Julien and Audric in my room at nine this morning."

Christophe chuckles, deliberately misunderstanding. "Then wherever are you finding this energy? -- I suppose," with a rather theatrical sigh, "we'll have to make do."

Aimery pokes him in the ribs. "Get your mind out of the gutter. --Yes, it looks like it." He frees a hand to loosen Christophe's clothing, in turn.

"Whyever would I want to do that at this late hour? Back up a step or two, would you?"

"For a change of pace?" Aimery complies.

"Bah." Christophe nuzzles his shoulder. "It's time to stick with what I know."

Aimery slides a hand under his shirt. "I suppose so, at that," huskily.

Christophe gives him a lazy smile, the effect of which is mainly lost in the darkness. "What's your pleasure, _mon frère_?"

Aimery sighs, pulling him close for another kiss. "Just you."

He receives the benefit of a kiss and an enthusiastic bearhug. "Love you," Christophe says, or perhaps growls, in his ear.

"And I love you, _mon frère, mon amour_." Aimery's voice is soft, though whether from emotion or lack of breath is open to debate.

Christophe sighs a little and lets him go. He brushes off Aimery's shirt, more as an excuse to continue the motion and slide a hand into his pants than anything else. "This will be quite the revolution."

Aimery catches his breath, knotting a hand reflexively in Christophe's sleeve. "With any luck at all."

"Mm." Christophe kisses him again.

"God, Chris," after an interval.

"What?" amused.

"Want you," in a most agonized tone, and then with a wry overtone, "damn your smug eyes."

Christophe kisses his cheek and laughs softly. "I'm right here, Aimé."

"Insufferable bastard." Aimery goes back to undoing Christophe's pants for him.

"What did you want, then?" as though they are ordering dinner in a restaurant.

Which only gets him pinched in a rather sensitive spot. "Not to be bloody well tormented. Not tonight, not here." Suddenly serious, if breathless. "No games, here."

"All right." Christophe tangles his free hand in Aimery's hair and kisses him in earnest, and though he begins speaking afterward, he stops delaying. "Forgive me, Aimery," deliberately using his full name. "Dear brother," more softly, "you have every virtue I have ever admired, and you are far too skilled in every vice I have ever enjoyed."

"Chris-- you can't-- oh. Oh God." Aimery buries his face in Christophe's shoulder a moment. "Can't say things like that-- when I can't think. Not fair." And, a few moments later, something that might best be transcribed as a belated "!"

Christophe kisses him gently. "If I compliment you when you can think, you'll insist on returning them. What's the fun in that?"

There is a minute's pause. "Why not?"

"You deserve many more compliments than I do, _chéri_."

"Bah." Aimery tugs him closer. "The hell I do." Another kiss. "You terrible, splendid man."

Christophe grins at him. "See. This is why I compliment you when you're incapacitated."

Aimery shifts a hand strategically. "Why's that?"

"Ah. It takes the fight out of you."

"Really." His fingers explore a little further. "That's helpful to know."

"Aimé --" Christophe's voice has become even more gruff than normal.

Aimery smiles in the darkness. "Come here, _cher_ , or you're going to end up falling on me and then where will I be?"

He feels for the wall and moves the requisite steps so that he can lean on it. "I've never fallen on you unless you deserved it."

Laughter. "I'd dispute that." And, softer, caressing him now in earnest, "I don't deserve half of what you do to me."

"I'd dispute that," echoing him with a catch of the breath.

"What you do for me." Aimery kisses him lightly. "Do you know how good it is to know you, your strength, your warmth, your shamelessness, your damnable self-satisfaction, you maddening, _splendid_ man?"

"Revenge is sweet," Christophe says, amused and hoarse. "-- God, Aimé. Kiss me. Please."

Aimery obliges, bracing his free hand against the wall.

A very long kiss later, Christophe leans on the wall and laughs. "You're wonderful."

Aimery grins at him. "I do try."

"And you succeed. But we should be getting back before we're missed."

"Yes, probably." Aimery lets him go, reluctantly, and starts to set his clothes to rights.

" _Je t'aime_ ," Christophe adds in the tone of an afterthought, as though he has not said it before.

Aimery smiles. " _Je t'aime, mon frère_. With all my heart."

Christophe hugs him again and mumbles something into his shoulder.

Aimery leans against him for a moment. "What's that?"

"Thank you. For -- everything, really."

"Don't mention it." Aimery thumps his shoulder affectionately. "Shall we go?"

Christophe squeezes him for a moment. "All right."

Aimery kisses his cheek. "All right, then."


	61. Justice (Enjolras): June, 1832

Audric and I have discussed it a thousand times, and never come to any satisfactory conclusion. I wish I could believe as he does, that our aims will achieve themselves in the fullness of time, that years of human suffering are better than a day of bloodshed. I would like to have that faith. I am here now, in the wreckage of a street, because I think it necessary, not because I want to be here. Perhaps I imagined glory, once when I was young, but 1830 cured me of that.

Last night when I embraced him, he pulled away from me. "You are going, aren't you. In spite of everything I've said."

"I am going to the funeral," I said.

"Armed," he flung at me.

"Prepared."

He turned away, his shoulders hunched. "Damn you."

"Audric--" My heart twisted. I have no defense against his anger, except anger, and I did not have the heart to quarrel with him, that night of all nights. I cannot bear to see that look on his face, upset with me, disappointed in me. I am so proud of him, his wisdom and his kindness that have only grown over the years; I want him to be proud of me.

I said soft, soothing things to him, convinced him somehow to come to bed with me, to let me kiss him and hold him until we fell asleep. When we woke in the early hours of the morning, we did not speak of it.

And he is here, now. He cannot be too angry with me, if he is here.

* * *

When I come out into the street, it is almost dark. The day has gone more quickly than I would have believed possible, but not in a blur. Everything is clear in my mind: the things we have done, the things we have yet to do. I know where everyone is, and what to expect from them. Strange that it comes so easily. Two years ago I was too overwhelmed to do much more than follow; today I have led. 

"All quiet?" I ask of a man I know slightly, and he nods.

"So far."

"Where did Courfeyrac go?" 

He points up the street, where I can pick out Aimery's graceful figure amid a knot of shadows.

"And Combeferre?"

"He went off with --" 

Something warns me: a prickle in the air like the presentiment of thunder. Whatever he was about to say is lost beneath the sudden pounding of my heart. When the shot goes off, I am already moving. In the stillness that follows, as I round the corner, someone says distinctly, "God."

There's a handful of them standing in the shadows; a dead man at a window, and a burly fellow just beneath, the gun still smoking in his hand. 

"That's it," he says in tones of satisfaction, and my mind goes white with fury.

I promised Audric that I would have this in hand. Swore to him that I would brook no needless bloodshed. This fool, this reckless drunken fool, has made me a liar.

_We are judges, not assassins._

And it is strange how it comes so easily; how he bends before me like a child, felled by his own guilt; how swiftly and suddenly he dies. In the clear, cold place where I find myself, the sight of the twitching body hardly moves me.

The others have gathered to see what the matter is; I can hear their breath in the silence. Calm, cold, I turn to explain it to them.

And then I see Audric's face.


	62. Suspense: June, 1832

The barricade is hushed after Enjolras executes Le Cabuc. Combeferre and Prouvaire lean on each other, their fingers laced tightly together, for several long moments as the other insurgents who observed the man's death and Enjolras' subsequent speech move away and take up whatever tasks they had laid down in order to watch. Combeferre kisses Prouvaire's forehead lightly and murmurs something to him, then goes to Enjolras and puts a hand on his shoulder, saying, "Julien," as softly as if he were waking Enjolras from a deep sleep.

Enjolras turns swiftly to face him, then relaxes a little. "Yes?"

Combeferre pauses a moment before answering. "You did well. Come and talk to me for a few minutes." He waves a hand toward a corner of the barricade that is open to the street.

Enjolras studies him a moment, then shrugs. "All right."

Combeferre gives him a weak smile and puts a hand on his shoulder as they walk. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," briefly. "Are you?"

"I'm not quite sure." They reach the outlet of the barricade, which might have been a clear street the day before, but is now shadowed and seems distant from the center where they had been. Combeferre embraces Enjolras.

After a moment, Enjolras yields, returning the embrace.

" _Je t'adore,_ " Combeferre whispers in his ear. "But you frighten me, today. Let me tend the wounded; ask someone else to guard your back."

Enjolras pulls back a little to look at him, with somewhat the expression of a boy spoiling for a fight; but then his gaze meets Combeferre's, and softens. "All right, love. All right."

Combeferre touches his cheek reverently. "I wish that no one else needs to be hurt to accomplish this, and -- and it hurts my heart to see you kill." His voice cracks on the last few words. "God, if it could only end now."

Enjolras goes from pale to white. "Yes, I know. I very much doubt that it will."

Combeferre nods, frowning. "And we may all die." He buries his face in Enjolras' shoulder. "We could still leave," he says, somewhat indistinctly.

Enjolras holds him close for a moment, then shakes him slightly. "Come on, Audric. Don't go to pieces now."

Combeferre gives him a pained look. "I'm not going to pieces. You're not acting like yourself, love."

"No more are you." Enjolras shakes his head. "It's all right, Audric. We'll manage."

Combeferre kisses his cheek. "I don't know what we'll manage, exactly. The multitudes are not precisely flocking to our side. But we will manage something," his tone grows bitter, "even if it is only a heroic death."

"Stop that," sharply.

Combeferre lets him go, and says, in the sing-song of a boy who is reciting a quotation, "'The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life; it will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die.' Or was that someone else, saying those words after he'd just shot a man, Julien, beloved friend. We are about to die, and you think I should be calm about this."

Enjolras colors, but does not flinch. "Some of us, yes. In all likelihood. That doesn't mean we shouldn't be here. It does no damned good to dwell on it, Audric."

"Why should we stay if we are certain to die?" Combeferre turns away from him. "They followed you here. They would follow you home, and things will change. Louis Philippe has hardly had time to warm his throne. He will be most reluctant to abandon it. If the people were as upset as our friends, our allies, our fellows -- they would be here by now."

"Audric." Enjolras' voice is hard. "Don't do this."

"What am I not supposed to do?" Combeferre's voice is cold.

Enjolras glares at him. "Do you want to go home? Then go. Tell them what fools we all are, if they stop you."

Combeferre turns and gives him an anguished look. "I would never leave without you."

"Then stay. I won't ask you to fight. Don't ask things of me that I can't give, either."

"I didn't ask you to leave." Combeferre sighs. "I know better than that."

"Then what do you want of me?" more gently.

"I want you to leave," putting a hand on his arm. "But I know you won't."

Enjolras takes in a breath, and lets it out again. "No. I can't-- in conscience, beloved." He hesitates momentarily, then offers a hug.

Combeferre embraces him. "I know. And neither can I." He kisses Enjolras' cheek. " _Je t'aime._ "

" _Je t'aime,_ " returning the kiss.

Combeferre kisses him again, less chastely. "Julien --"

" _Cher_?"

"We should keep watch, for a bit." The words may be virtuous, but Combeferre tangles his fingers in Enjolras' hair and kisses him again.

"Audric," Enjolras protests, between kisses, but his hand knots in Combeferre's shirt as though of its own accord.

"Beloved." Another prolonged kiss.

Enjolras leans against him a moment, then pulls away, faintly flushed. "Let's go and do that, then."

"We'd hear if anything happened." Combeferre closes the distance between them again.

"Audric--" But the protest is halfhearted, this time.

"I love you," again, in the tone that implies that one cannot say this too many times.

"As I love you," pressing closer.

Combeferre puts an arm around Enjolras' waist. " _Chéri_ \--"

"Yes?" breathlessly.

"Please -- let me --"

Julien catches hold of his shoulder. "God."

Audric fumbles with the buttons on Julien's pants. "Dearest."

Julien gasps and knots his other hand in Audric's shirt, to keep from losing his balance. "I-- not-- not right here--"

Audric kisses him. "Where?"

"I don't know. Audric, this isn't--"

Audric lets him go and turns away. "I'm sorry."

Julien makes a small, most undignified noise and catches his arm again. " _Cher_."

Audric looks back at him, frowning. "I'm sorry."

Julien leans against his shoulder. "No, it's all right."

"Please --" Audric kisses him again, at some length.

Julien returns the kiss, embracing him tightly.

"Let me?" Audric asks again, breathlessly.

"I... all right."

Audric kisses his cheek. "We can go a bit farther, if you want."

Julien gets a breath. "I don't mind."

Audric touches his cheek. "All right." He puts an arm around Julien's waist. 

"Let's --"

"Hm?"

Audric waves a hand toward the extreme end of the barricade. "If we are closer to the street -- and farther from the rest -- it will be easier to hear what's going on nearby."

Julien takes another deep breath, and nods, regaining a semblance of composure and efficiency. "All right."

They walk down the street a little farther and find the darker side of a building which, if its occupants have any sense, has been empty all day. Audric embraces Julien again. "Is that better?"

"Probably." Julien's demeanor is calm, now, in contrast to the eagerness with which his fingers run through Audric's hair.

In order to ensure that he receives the answer he would prefer, Audric kisses Julien thoroughly, then says, "If you would rather not --"

Julien shakes his head distractedly, and kisses him again.

Audric makes another attempt at unbuttoning his pants.

This time Julien puts up no resistance, only tangles his hands more firmly in Audric's hair.

Audric obligingly kisses him while fumbling with his clothes. He breaks the kiss once he has his hand inside Julien's pants to say, "Let me --"

Julien nods once, fiercely, biting his lip, and runs his fingers down Audric's spine.

Audric kisses him lightly and runs his hands down Julien's chest. "Beautiful. God --" and while it may not be the best of ideas to kneel in a Parisian alleyway, he does it anyway.

Julien shudders slightly, running his fingers through Audric's hair again. " _Chéri_ ," in half a voice.

"Sweetheart." Audric nuzzles his hip.

"Ah, God," indistinctly.

" _Chéri_ ," Audric says softly, and then he stops complimenting Julien in favor of adoring him in a different, albeit still oral, manner, which has the effect of stilling Julien's hands, if not his ragged gasps. Audric, on the other hand, shows no signs of stopping what he is doing. He puts one hand on Julien's hip.

Julien presses a hand to his mouth, stifling a cry. "God--"

Audric runs gentle fingers down his leg, perhaps intending to be comforting.

Julien shivers, and knots his free hand in Audric's hair again, whispering his name.

Audric covers one of Julien's hands with his own and continues, speeding up a little.

After a moment Julien makes a strangled sound, and then relaxes, barely managing to keep his feet under him.

Audric stands once Julien has regained his balance and embraces him. "I love you beyond words," softly.

Julien clings to him, dazed. " _Je t'aime._ I... we should..."

"We should watch, I think, to make sure that no one ambushes us here." Audric tugs at Julien's clothing, setting it somewhat to rights.

"Yes," abstractedly. "I-- I'm sorry."

"Sweet love." Audric kisses his cheek. "We will all do the best we can."

Julien passes a hand over his face, and nods. "I know." He straightens, blinking a few times.

Audric backs away a step. "You look presentable," he says with a crooked smile.

"Good." Julien rakes his hair back perfunctorily, hesitates, then kisses Audric once more, lingeringly.

Audric makes a small noise that is not wholly unlike a whimper.

Julien pulls back reluctantly after a moment.

Audric moves half the distance necessary to reinitiate the kiss, then stops himself. "All right."

Julien reaches up to touch his cheek. "Later, love."

Audric turns his head. "If the world does not go mad between then and now."

"I doubt it." Julien takes his hand. "Come and watch with me."

Audric gives him a wan smile. "Gladly."


	63. Sacrifices: June, 1832

_The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire._

He was sought among the wounded, he was not there. He was sought among the dead, he was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre said to Enjolras, "They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set on the death of that spy?"

"Yes," replied Enjolras; "but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire."

This took place in the tap-room near Javert's post.

"Well," resumed Combeferre, "I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for theirs."

"Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre's arm.

At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms.

They heard a manly voice shout:

"Long live France! Long live the future!"

They recognized the voice of Prouvaire.

A flash passed, a report rang out.

Silence fell again.

"They have killed him," exclaimed Combeferre.

Enjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him: "Your friends have just shot you."

Combeferre frowns at the floor for a moment, then puts a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "Come and talk to me."

For a moment Enjolras seems not to hear; then he nods curtly and leaves the room without a backward glance.

Combeferre follows him. "Julien -- perhaps we should keep watch a while longer."

Enjolras shrugs.

Combeferre walks toward the edge of the barricade where they had sat before without glancing to see if Enjolras is with him.

Enjolras comes to stand silently beside him. 

After a few moments, Combeferre fumbles in his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He makes use of it to dry the tears that have been running down his cheeks.

Enjolras says nothing, but he reaches out to rest a hand softly on Combeferre's shoulder.

"You still won't leave." It is a statement, not a question.

"No," in a reassuring, rather than a stubborn tone, though his voice is hoarse.

Combeferre blows his nose. "Why not?"

Enjolras looks over at him swiftly. " _Now?_ "

"While you are still alive. Yes. Now."

"And let them die for nothing, uselessly?" The passion in his voice is startling after his stillness. "I'll be damned first."

"You'll be damned either way," Combeferre says bitterly.

"By that logic, I already am," equally bitterly. "A thousand times over, if you like."

Combeferre embraces him with the speed of someone who fears he will be pushed away if he hesitates, and if a kiss can be punishing, the one he gives Enjolras is.

Startled, Enjolras resists for a moment, then yields, though his fingers dig painfully into Combeferre's arms.

"Come home with me," Combeferre demands. His voice is hoarse, and he is weeping again.

Enjolras' eyes are suspiciously bright, but he looks at Combeferre steadily, jaw set in an expression that resembles fury. "No. Not now."

"Please. As you love me, leave this madness."

" _No._ " He tears free of Combeferre's arms, backing away. "I cannot, I will not, and you have no right to ask it. I have-- _we_ have a responsibility here, to the living as well as the dead, to our friends as well as to our cause. Perhaps you could live with yourself, knowing that Christophe is dead, Jehan was murdered, for nothing, to no possible good-- but I couldn't."

"What good will it do anyone if we meet the same fate?" Combeferre bites his lip. "What good can that do? Our responsibility is to the memory of our friends; our responsibility is to make certain that their deaths were not in vain. If we all die so swiftly as they have done, that is a greater betrayal than leaving this place and keeping faith with what they -- what they died for."

Enjolras shakes his head slightly. "They killed Jehan in cold blood. Do you think any of us will leave here if we try?"

"They didn't see Marius. We couldn't all leave at once, but we might leave quietly."

"Fifty of us? Coming away from here, looking as we do, carrying guns and swords, dirty and sweaty and some of us wounded?"

"Leave the guns, then. If one of us left every half an hour?" Combeferre waves a hand. "That would be fewer of us doomed."

"Then we would not be gone until this time tomorrow." Enjolras looks away from him. "Even granting that we gave up-- I don't stir from this place unless everyone else has gone."

"Then there would not be so many of us in danger." Combeferre puts a hand on his shoulder. "I can't say that I don't care if I die, because that isn't true, but I would feel less of a weight on my soul if there were twenty men with me rather than fifty."

Enjolras is silent for a minute, gazing into the shadows, his face tense and troubled. "In the morning," he says at last. "Something may yet come-- but if it doesn't come by morning, we'll start to send them home."

"In the morning, it will be too late." Combeferre turns away. "If we do not begin now, we have murdered each one who could have left, and thrust in the knife together."

"Audric--" Julien's voice trembles.

"If something comes, it will carry everyone still here. If it is something strong enough for victory, it will not matter how many of us remain." Combeferre turns back to look at him. "Damn it. I would do anything to keep you all safe. I only wish you felt the same way."

"Do you think I don't?" There are tears in Enjolras' eyes. "They may not be my lovers, but they are my brothers. Do you think I want them hurt? But this is too important. We've worked too hard, we've staked too much to give up while there is still hope of succeeding." He makes a small sound which may be a chuckle, or may be a sob. "Christophe would kill me if I agreed to back down now." And, reaching for Combeferre's hand, "Give it until morning. A few more hours till it's light, and then if there is no change, we will end this."

Combeferre takes his hand, and embraces him after a moment. "Is there hope of succeeding?" he asks, in the emotionless voice one might use to inquire the answer to a mathematical problem.

"There may be," quietly. "We have to see it through."

Combeferre strokes Enjolras' hair. "If you are injured, beloved --"

"Then I'll be better off than Jehan." He buries his face in Combeferre's shoulder.

"God." Combeferre's voice is choked. "I thought I understood this until I saw the blood on Christophe's chest. Now -- I don't know. And you doubtless think less of me for it."

"No, love." Enjolras kisses his cheek. "Just-- please, be with me now. And trust me as I trust you. I need you." His voice breaks.

"I won't leave without you." Combeferre returns the kiss.

"Audric..."

Combeferre lets him go. "I won't leave. I trust you with my life, my love, my dearest friend." He looks away from Julien. "I don't know what else you expect."

"Have mercy on me," Julien breathes, half-audibly. His eyes, colorless in the distant torchlight, have a wracked look. " _Mon coeur_ \-- _mon frère_."

"I --" Audric shudders. "I can't give you more than this."

There is a moment's silence. "I know what I'm doing, Audric. As much as any of us do."

"If you only understand this as well as I do, we are both on the verge of disaster. Audric raises a hand as if to touch Julien's face, then stops. "We should do what we can to prepare. Whatever that is."

Enjolras regards him steadily, deliberately remote. "When you decide what it is, I won't try to prevent you from doing it. Meanwhile, my decision stands."

"I love you," Combeferre says quietly.

Enjolras glances down for a moment, and holds out his arms.

Combeferre takes a long, shivering breath. "Julien --" He embraces Enjolras.

"I love you," Julien whispers, and hugs him tightly for a minute. Then, his hands straying downward, "Shall I--?"

Audric buries his face in Julien's shoulder. "Oh, God."

Softly, "I did say 'later', didn't I?"

"Yes -- yes, you did."

"So. And this is later." Julien draws him aside, into the shadow of the wall. "I keep my promises, beloved."

Audric looks as though he is about to protest, but he says nothing.

Julien kisses his cheek. "I love you." And, unfastening Audric's trousers with the dexterity of long practice, he goes on in a whisper, words he has said before now to Aimery, Christophe, Jehan; a curiously formal recitation, in the context, for the last phrases are spoken against sweaty bare skin. When he comes to the end, he falls silent, to finish what his caressing fingers have begun.

Audric is unwontedly quiet, responding only when the recitation demands an answer, He has one hand tangled in Julien's hair and the other clenched into a tight fist. When it is over, he covers his face with the hand that had been in a fist and shudders. "Oh, my love."

"My dearest," Julien murmurs. "My beloved." After a minute he rises lightly and embraces Audric again.

"Do you understand everything that you mean to me?" Audric asks in a choked voice. He kisses Julien before he can answer.

Julien returns the kiss without speaking, running his fingers gently through Audric's hair.

Audric hugs him tightly.

"You should rest, love," Julien says quietly after a minute.

"So should you."

Julien shrugs. "Maybe."

"We should all rest. Please."

"Probably," Julien concedes with a sigh. He seems disinclined to move.

Audric kisses his cheek. "We both need to try to sleep."

Julien returns the kiss. "Everyone does. Go and tell Aimery, will you?"

Audric blinks at him. "I'm sure he knows."

Julien sighs. "Tell him to tell the rest, then. I-- I need to think, Audric. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"All right." Audric lets him go reluctantly.

Julien squeezes his hand. " _Je t'aime_."

Audric gives him a brief smile. " _Je t'adore_." He pauses a moment to make sure that his clothing is set to rights, then leaves.


	64. Tears: June, 1832

In the cold, dark hours of the night when everyone is supposed to be asleep, Feuilly spends some time creating a shred of immortality for himself and his philosophies on the wall before he gets up, shakes a cramp out of his hand, and seeks out Courfeyrac. The latter is dozing, but wakes a little when Feuilly sits down beside him and leans against the building that is serving as his chaise longue. "I didn't mean to wake you," Feuilly says quietly, trying not to compound his sin by waking other people who are trying to rest nearby.

Courfeyrac looks at him dazedly for a moment. "That's all right."

Feuilly embraces him. "Are you?" in a whisper. "Really?"

"Am I what?" tugging him close.

"Are you all right?"

"More or less. Got a damnable crick in my neck." Courfeyrac kisses his cheek, unobtrusively. "But you're here."

"Yes. I am." Feuilly fishes out a blue speckled handkerchief and presses it into Courfeyrac's hand. "But too few of us are. If you're not all right --" he touches his cheek gently. "You can tell me. And -- and whatever you need, _mon amour._ "

"Oh, Daniel." Courfeyrac blinks a few times, and hugs him.

Feuilly hugs him tightly, assuming that nearly anyone who might be paying attention is actually asleep. "It's all right," he says softly. "You don't have to be brave for me."

Courfeyrac strokes his hair. "I know." Possibly he is smiling. "If I am, it's not for your sake, love."

"For whom, then?"

"Myself. And them, maybe."

"Ah." More softly yet, "No one will fault you if you grieve."

The light tone acquires a certain edge. "Time enough for that."

Feuilly lets him go, gives him a long look, and nods. "Of course."

Courfeyrac reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Daniel-- there was a time I thought they'd killed you."

Feuilly pales. "In the heat of battle -- it's not always easy to tell."

"True." Courfeyrac meets his eyes. "And I love you more than life. I took you home safe, because that was what I could do for you; and if-- if it had been too late for that-- I would have taken what price I could out of the fumbling bastards who took you from me." His face is hard in the half-light. "Because that would have been all I could do for you."

Feuilly embraces him again. "Ah, god, Aimé. I'm sorry."

Courfeyrac sighs against his shoulder, holding him tightly. "Beloved."

"And do you love them more than life?" Feuilly asks in his ear. There is nothing of accusation about his tone; if anything, there is despair.

"Jesus Christ, Daniel," stricken.

Feuilly's hands tighten on his shoulders. "Tell me. Please."

"Damn it all." Courfeyrac's voice breaks then, without warning. "Do you have to do this? Even now?" He kisses Feuilly, not waiting for an answer, and not gently. "You know the answer, damn you, you know it--" and abruptly he goes silent, his shoulders shaking.

Feuilly strokes his hair. "I was afraid of that."

"It's losing you that will break me," in a racked whisper, "and I will. And God! damn you! they're dead, you have nothing to be jealous of! Does everything have to be different for you, _more_ for you, do I have to promise I'll break down and cry like a girl when they kill you if God doesn't take pity on me and let me die first--" Courfeyrac is hoarse now with the effort of keeping his voice down. "What does it take? What do I have to do?"

Feuilly shakes him a little, his face red. "Aimery. No. No, no -- that's not what I mean, not at all. Ah, beloved. No." He frowns. "I -- didn't know if I would lose you, if you were that upset and that angry yet." And again he buries his face in Courfeyrac's shoulder. "It's nothing to do with jealousy, nothing. I'm worried about you, _chéri_."

Courfeyrac clings to him, trembling. "I love you."

"And I you. More than anything in the world." Feuilly kisses his hair. "And if you need anything, I will give it to you."

Courfeyrac is quiet for a minute, while he pulls himself together. "I need you to believe me, once and for all, when I say that I love you more than anything. _You_ , damn it, not you and half the Latin Quarter, not you and everyone we know."

Feuilly seems to have forgotten that there is anyone else nearby, for his response to this is, "I do believe you," reinforced with an impassioned kiss.

"Good," indistinctly, before returning the kiss.

Feuilly tangles his fingers in Courfeyrac's hair and clings to him.

Courfeyrac pulls him close, leaning against the wall with a sigh.

When at last Feuilly breaks the kiss to breathe, he settles next to Courfeyrac, close enough to murmur in his ear, "If you feel you cannot live without me, brother, friend, beloved -- you will understand that I feel quite the same way."

A wan half-smile. "That's flattering."

"I doubt it, but it's true." Feuilly leans on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Daniel," gently.

"Whatever for? I had a hundred chances to avoid needing you this much," lightly.

"Oh. Really? That's all right, then," as lightly.

A moment later, Feuilly is in his arms again. "It isn't. Not really."

"Well," softly, still teasing, "that would mean I was resistible, so I suppose not."

" _Chéri_ ," chiding a little.

Courfeyrac sighs. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be done for it, is there?"

"Not really. Not now."

Feuilly nods and lets him go a little. "All right."

Courfeyrac looks at him wistfully. "Daniel..."

"Yes?"

Once again, softly, "I'm sorry."

"You sound like me. It's all right, Aimé. I chose to do everything I've done. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Stay with me?"

Feuilly blinks at him. "Where on earth would I go?"

"I don't know." Courfeyrac gazes at him for a minute. "Just--"

"What?" gently.

"Nothing. I don't want to let you out of my sight."

Feuilly smiles. "I'm right here."


	65. Terrible (Combeferre): June, 1832

__

The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop, and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche's arrival, rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras' order could be executed, the discharge took place with the terrifying rattle of a round of grape-shot. This is what it was, in fact.

The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced two dead and three wounded.

If this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable. The grape-shot made its way in.

A murmur of consternation arose.

"Let us prevent the second discharge," said Enjolras.

And, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun, who, at that moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing.

The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery, very young, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which, by dint of perfecting itself in horror, must end in killing war.

Combeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this young man.

"What a pity!" said Combeferre. "What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother."

"He is," said Enjolras.

"Yes," replied Combeferre, "he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him."

"Let me alone. It must be done."

And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek.

At the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms extended in front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath, then he fell with his side on the gun, and lay there motionless. They could see his back, from the centre of which there flowed directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast from side to side. He was dead.

He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes were thus gained, in fact.

I woke beside Julien yesterday morning, as I have woken with him for six years now, so pleased to be in his arms that I could scarcely imagine being anywhere else. He has never felt so glad of me. If it were not so terrible it would be funny -- I could have been happy with him, but he has not believed that for years; he could never have been content with what I wanted from life.

I wanted him to feel bound to someone, anyone, to love them more than his ideals as he has not loved me, but I have failed in that. It was all for nothing, the kisses he resented, the embraces that disgusted him, it changed nothing in his heart. If anything, it made him colder toward me, though I cannot really remember how it was before everything began. I wanted him to learn patience, but I could not teach him that. I wanted him to feel loved, but in seeking people who would love him and whom he might care for, I lost him. I see it now, too late to change anything. He should have felt bound to take care of them, of me, of himself, but he only feels bound to his ideals, and we will all die for them. I doubt he has spared a thought for Christophe and Jehan. He may not notice that they are gone. He may have forgotten that they were ever here, that they were ever his friends, his brothers, and remembered them only as nameless, faceless sacrifices in this insanity.

I should have more faith in his humanity, but I can't. I should trust him, but I have trusted him too much for too long. He is not the man I have loved, not here, not in this. I wanted him to feel that they were a part of him, closer than blood, but he is untouched by their deaths. I don't understand him, and I begin to think that I never did. When I look at him in the torchlight, in the weak dawn of this horrible day, I forget that I love him, that I have loved him. I could never have been so close to someone as cold as he is, as untouched by the tragedies he causes all around him, and yet I was. I feel that I have lost him already, and that when I die, he will be neither surprised nor perturbed.

None of us can leave now, not with the soldiers pressing so close. I am here, trapped with all of them, and I will do what I can to heal them and keep life in their hearts as long as I can. I love them still, my brothers, and I have no words to comfort them. The manic, empty cheer in Aimery's eyes and Bossuet's words makes me want to shake Julien and force him to explain to them what we have gained that could be worth the life of any man. I want to weep for them; in my cowardice, I want to hide, to speak with Aimery as if it were a normal morning. But he has more right to mourn than I, for Julien still lives, however unlike himself he has become.

If Paris wakes and flies to our aid, if we should suddenly find ourselves living and victorious, I will have lost Julien as surely as if he had been shot. I have seen him like this, lost in impossible dreams, heedless of danger and death, only once before, and I almost turned away from him then. 

Because we triumphed in July, I managed to convince myself that the fearsome idealist was not really Julien, that it was only an illusion. It was a cruel lie to tell myself. If I had remembered clearly, I would not be trapped and sentenced to death by my own words.

This madness will not end as that did, with a dethroned king and a celebration of victory among my brothers. I shall never again wake with Jehan's head on my shoulder and his soft curls tickling my nose, nor shall I hear Christophe's chuckle, cut off by his teasing words. If I should suddenly wake, as I did that day, to find Aimery touching my shoulder and asking me to come with him and visit Daniel at home, then I might begin to forgive Julien, I might forget this. But that is impossible now, and I cannot forget anything that has happened, everything that Julien could have prevented.

I cannot love him anymore. He is not the boy I have loved; that boy, sweet and gentle, was never real -- he was always this man, this soldier, somehow inured to the sight of blood, heartless, willing to sacrifice himself and his friends for the sake of an impossible dream. I lied to myself about him for so many years that it is difficult to remember the truth, even in the midst of this battle, for more than a moment at a time. I want to be with him in this, but I can't watch him kill, not again. I wish that I could stop this. I tried, Jehan. If I had only gone, if I had not said anything to him -- but our position is increasingly hopeless, and soon it will not matter who died first, for we will all be shot in the street.

If I could approach him, if he would speak to me again, if we had half a moment to spare, I might tell Julien that I loved him, but we do not have that time, and so I do not need to lie. I only hope that I do not see him injured; I could not think well enough to help him, not now. The others, yes, but they have not betrayed me as he has. They are my brothers, not _mon âme_ , and I would give them the breath from my body if I could save them with it.

I am cowardly enough that I would rather not die, given the chance to live, but I have sworn to too many men here, living and dead, and I cannot leave. It doesn't matter whether I am here for myself, for Julien, for an ideal, or out of suicidal insanity. All that matters is that I am here, that we all are. Three men may keep a secret if two of them are dead; eight men have kept a secret, and soon it will be perfectly safe, for no one will survive who would care to remember what folly brought him to such a place. No one will wonder what we might have meant to each other; no one will care whether any of us died with a broken heart.


	66. Casualties: June, 1832

There is a slight lull in the heat of battle, long enough for the insurgents to bandage their wounds, count their numbers, and take a deep breath. For the third time in a handful of hours, Combeferre puts a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and says, softly, "I would speak with you, Julien."

"What is it?" The words are brusque, but he leans slightly, unconsciously into the touch.

"I hate this." The words are soft but vehement. "I don't understand any of it -- and I don't understand you when you are like this. You frighten me," says the man with his compatriots' blood on his shirt, where the apron does not cover properly. "I don't know you anymore."

Enjolras looks at him sharply. "Do you think I don't hate it?" The blue of his eyes seems faded toward gray. "Do you think I'm pleased with this state of affairs? Then you're right; you don't know me."

"It doesn't have to be this way, Julien. It could have been different, if you had only let it --" Combeferre bites his lip and looks at the ground. "It should have been different. How could you -- you knew we would die, from the start."

"No, I did _not_ know that, and I don't know it now!" Abruptly, Enjolras is blazing again. "By God, blame me for everything that's gone wrong if you must, but don't you dare assume--"

Combeferre frowns at him. "You said it, hours ago, and if you don't remember then by God you must believe that I would not forget such a thing from you. I only pray that you were wrong, though I know this is hopeless --" he shakes his head. "If we live, if we get through this -- everything will have changed, not only the Republic, the Country," he gestures grandly, "but the way I feel about you."

"Oh, really."

"Yes -- I -- " Combeferre pauses. Outside the barricade, there is the sound of gunfire. He ducks, reflexively, as do the rest of the men behind their makeshift wall. "I loved you with all my heart. And I -- I have to go. They'll need me in a moment."

Enjolras glances distractedly over his shoulder. He has gone terribly pale. "Then perhaps you're the one who has changed here, not I." With that, he turns away. 


	67. Loss (Feuilly): June, 1832

Aimery died three eternal moments ago. I saw him fall beside me, and I ducked down behind the stones to see if I could help, but it was too late. I should not have looked, never have seen him broken and lost. In ten minutes it will not matter, for I will be on my way to heaven or to hell. Until then, I can see nothing but his face, frozen in agony, though I had to look away and return to my horrific duty.

I was not certain that I would die until now. And now it doesn't matter, for there is no one left who will care, no sweet friend who will lend me a shoulder and a bed.

Ah, God, how can he be dead?

I have no time to mourn, no time to wonder whether this sacrifice will benefit anyone. They are coming, and the cannon is firing again.


	68. Intimate (Pontmercy): February, 1833

I hardly knew the woman's voice or her face; it was what came of having someone else pay the rent for the scant months I lived in the place, and pretending I did not live there even though I did. But she yelled, "Monsieur Pontmercy!" at me from outside the church as merrily as if we had spoken daily, and I could not help but answer, even when my heart was overflowing with love for Cosette, and I could think of nothing but her.

"Yes, madame?" I said, and she took my hand firmly.

"I thought you were dead, you poor young man, like the other two." I stared at her a moment, and then I knew her -- the concierge of Courfeyrac's last apartment. "I've brought your things, and theirs, as I didn't know which was whose." She gave me a broad wink.

I could only stare at her in surprise and no small measure of fear. "Madame?"

"Dear boy," she said, "how I worried about you all, going off to fight --" She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose heartily. "I was so glad to hear you were all right."

"Thank you," I said faintly. Cosette was somewhere, talking perhaps with her father, or with some other guest I had not met. I wanted her beside me then as desperately as I had ever needed her company, to staunch the flow of memories I had thought lost or faded.

"Gerald, bring the things," the woman called over her shoulder, and a dimwitted boy set three book-laden boxes in front of me and put a large, rectangular flat thing draped with a cloth on top.

"What's that?" I asked of the odd object, before I remembered and felt my cheeks burn red with shame. I wanted to steal the words back, throw the incriminating thing onto the pavement and stomp it into a blur.

She knew perfectly well what it was, for she gave me a dig in the ribs. "Monsieur de Courfeyrac's picture, of course."

"Of course," I echoed weakly, planning how best to hide the thing from Cosette.

"We'll be off, then. Come along, Gerald. Best of luck to you, m'sieur, and to your lady wife."

I bowed to her and gestured to my cousin for assistance. "Théodule. You must help me."

He ran his fingers over his mustache -- a most annoying nervous habit. "What do you need? Are you lacking in courage for your fair bride?"

If I had not been so desperate, I would have struck him, wedding day or no wedding day. "I need you to get these books out of here, and that picture -- don't touch it!"

He was on the verge of pulling back the covering and laying the misbegotten thing bare to all the eyes of the wedding guests. Instead, he turned to me, his eyebrows raised high. "No?"

"Not here," I told him through clenched teeth.

"All right, cousin, peace. Where shall I take these odds and ends?"

"Hire a fiacre." I pressed money into his hand, far too much for a cab, and saw his expression lighten. "Take them to my grandfather's. Toss the picture into the gutter if the occasion arises."

"Is it so unflattering?"

I knew I had said too much. With a renewed blush, I said, "Not to the person in it, who's dead. Have a little respect."

"Is she, now. Then she won't mind me looking."

I shook my head. "Take the things away, now."

"Have a care, Marius, before you prostrate yourself on your own wedding day." But he turned away to hail a fiacre, and I breathed a sigh of relief. With the nuisances gone, I could return to the joy of my life, my beautiful Cosette, and the revels that awaited us that day.

In all of the rushing and bustling, I forgot that Courfeyrac's concierge had ever visited me, and I gratefully allowed her distressing burdens to slip my mind until I went looking for a particular book and happened into a closet. What should greet me there but the portrait, proudly unveiled, reigning supreme over the boxes that had accompanied it? I swore -- under my breath, so as not to disturb Cosette -- and closed the door. I fetched an old sheet to cover the abomination. I had at first planned to destroy it immediately, but I found I could not.

In among the books -- law textbooks, classics, novels -- there was a box. When I opened it, I caught the smell of Courfeyrac's cologne, and for a moment I was dizzy, expecting him to walk in at any moment and scold me for reading his correspondence. He did nothing of the sort, and so I took the box into my study and started to flip through the letters. I told myself that I would have to forward on the ones from his family, but surely there were letters they would rather not see.

One such sat on top of the stack, in bold if somewhat careless handwriting. I began reading it with some distress, and nearly stopped when I discovered who it was from, but he was, after all, dead, and what harm could come of it?

* * *

Dearest Aimery,

I called on you the other evening, or rather I attempted to call on you, only to have Daniel inform me in a laugh that you were not expected for two weeks, even though you've been gone for six. Why this long absence, dear brother? You must know our fires burn lower in your absence, when we have nothing to stoke them with but increasingly distant memories of this speech or that, of your charming face and, as you must be aware, the fond touch of your hands. Of course I was seeking your company sheerly for the pleasure of talking to you. Do you laugh at me now? Well you might, for I prevaricate in letters.

Daniel, you may be gratified or worried to hear, wanted none of the fine damsels I had meant to introduce you to, and I in your absence found my taste for them weaker than I had expected it to be, like stew without salt or spices: sustaining, pleasant enough in its own right, but without the piquant flavor that so delights me in your presence. You may well have spoiled that fellow's palate for anything less savory than yourself. He seemed a bit wan, I'm sorry to say, and if he would have accepted my comforts I would have proffered them. But he is ever so devoted to you, and so he pines away like any abandoned mistress -- though I suspect most abandoned mistresses are rather more amenable to distractions; perhaps he merely comforts himself in ways I haven't heard about quite yet.

For myself, I sought out Jehan and pried him from his Eagle's nest. Does it ever surprise you to look at him when he is in a filthy mood? He says things that would have made him die of shame, when we first met him, and his eyes are still as bright and seemingly innocent as they ever were, and his cheek as smooth -- though that is increasingly through art rather than nature. One wonders whether our Eagle is Roman in his tastes, or Greek, to prefer his poet so desperately young in appearance. I can't say that object to the aesthetic; he is not so old that the artifice shows to anyone who does not know every inch of his skin.

We spoke of you, as we often do, and felt your absence all the more keenly because of the great distance. We spoke fondly of exploits long past and laughed together over our own temerity. He reminded me of several girls whose names I had forgotten before he called them to my mind. Does that speak poorly of me, or well of him, or both, that he should know my mistresses better than I do? Certainly several of them were quite fond of him, and I seem to recall that Angélique was terribly fond of you, if I recall her name correctly. I can certainly remember her pretty face, whispering fond nonsense to you and begging you to press on even as you gasped for breath and pulled her close in a glory of desire. She was a truly depraved girl, that one, well suited to your tastes, and, if I must admit it, to mine.

Now you are laughing again, I'm quite sure. Have your laugh, if you must; I am laughing too, for Jehan reminded me of the sweet incident that you, for once, admitted to instigating. It was several years ago, but he was quite sure we could safely blame you. How often the two of you cavort and call it "my fault," as if there is any fault to be assigned in the pursuit of ecstasy. At least this once you admitted that the seed of the idea, as it were, was yours.

I remember the evening as golden, first from sunlight, then from lamplight, and the shivering haste with which we undressed Jehan. In the morning, we couldn't even find his cravat, but even had we known it that night, would we have cared, dear brother? Not with the visions of pleasure before our eyes, I am quite sure.

You had both come to my apartment, you from the meeting and Jehan fresh from a bath. He could hardly sit still for a moment that night; politics would have been a terrible distraction from joy. And yet he argued at first, as he is so wont to do -- generally, I suspect, for the purpose of inflaming as many passions as he can kindle. The dear, wicked boy does love a good debate, and he will persist until his lips are swollen with kisses and he cannot breathe. Only then did he remind us with a shiver in his voice of the promise you had made him-- a mad promise, surely issued an instant before you came some sweaty evening. I know you and your rash promises all too well. And you regretted that promise, I recall, and tried to ignore his insistent undulations until he forgot the very thing that had obsessed his debauched mind.

How on earth did you think you could distract Jehan from such an idea once you had planted the seed deep within his head? He knew all too well what he wanted, and nothing would do but his fantasy made flesh. "Take me, damn you," was, if I recall, his precise command, issued in that light voice he saved for such backhanded endearments.

I told him he was being far too ambitious and he started to sulk. He is so pretty in a sulk that it is a shame to disturb it; sometimes I regret my decision to bind his hands that evening, but I daresay it kept him out of our hair.

It had been some time since I had had the pleasure of your company, if you'll recall. How he wailed when I kissed you instead of him, and how you grinned, dear brother, at my suggestion. Surely Jehan is the only man whom I have heard protest the touch of your fine tongue and the embrace of your knowledgeable lips. I was sure he would fall off of the bed with fighting to get away, bound hands or no, when you stopped -- in mercy, or in torment, neither of us were quite sure. I decided a moment later when you kissed me, sharing the taste of his juices as if we were sharing a fruit. I remember how piteously he cursed us, aching with his own impotence to egg us on to anything more.

When I bent to taste him, he protested in the name of Robespierre -- enough to knock any man out of bed. "This isn't what I wanted at all," Jehan said, his fair face blotched with irritation. 

And how sweetly you comforted him, in his misapprehension. "Later, chéri. Soon enough."

"Why not now?" The dear, impatient boy could hardly think, and his voice grew petulant.

"Let us help you relax," you told him -- how sweet you can be when you want to cajole.

He calmed only a little when he understood, only enough to allow us to tease him. I loved the way he shivered, watching you, nearly as much as the arch of his back when you let me savor him. Poor Jehan, tortured so by his loving friends. He was appreciative after a while, and how he shivered when he came. Do you remember the curve of his back and the madness in him at the last? 

He was not quite so sweet when we had finished as when we began, but his delicate face, lately scarred with frowns, reflected his gratitude. Isn't it lovely to snuggle up to him? He's a kind boy when he wants to be.

And relaxed, he would have let us do nearly anything. He nearly fell asleep with his head on my shoulder before you pressed your fingers inside him, and then he began fidgeting. Sometimes I wonder whether his ingenuousness or his insatiability is more charming. What would you say, my love?

Whichever it is, he was displaying both characteristics most clearly that night. He pressed against your fingers as eagerly as anything. "Now?" he asked, as if we had offered him the best reward in the world, and then held it far above his head. He kept asking -- as he always does -- until my fingers had joined yours, stretching him as he shuddered. His impatience got the better of him, and he wriggled away, laughing at us, goading us. How is it that he could be so impatient, when we were waiting for him and we had already satisfied him once? I expect he had dreamed of the promise long before that night; I am sure that I had spent time meditating on it, nearly as much as I have since.

Lovely Jehan, mad with laughter, spread his legs and thrust himself down over me until I shuddered. You called him greedy, with good cause, and he only laughed again, acknowledging the truth of it. I grinned up at him, exulting in the feel of his body against mine. With your deft fingers teasing him, he was soon writhing and saying, "More, more."

Could you have denied him? I could not have, in your place. I tucked my legs under yours as you moved into him. Didn't he whimper sweetly? How lovely his face was, though you could not see it. He bit his lip, clung to my hands, shuddered against me, and leaned against you with all the force his courage permitted him. Could anything be more intimate than that was, Aimery? Could anything burn with such desire as we did, sliding together, holding each other tightly, until Jehan came again, calling our names and cursing with each hissing breath. The impossibly tight embrace of his body spurred me on; how you clung to his hips. It was too beautiful, too maddening to survive for more than a few moments.

Do you ever dream of that night, love, and the way we held each other afterward? On the evenings when I am unfortunately alone, I sometimes recall it. Perhaps the memory will comfort you tonight, and until you return -- none too soon. I expect we could coax Jehan into repeating the spectacular performance, if you can spare an evening.

It will be lovely to see you again.

With affection,  
Christophe

* * *

I had no way of knowing whether the tale was true or false, and all the participants were long buried. Still, I could picture them clearly, and the idea of their antics made me shiver. If that was what it had truly meant to be one of their brothers, then what sweet madness had I missed? Too late to rectify the situation now, certainly, but I could easily stop Aimery's parents from seeing the letter. It would scandalize anyone; it shocked me even though I found it plausible. I resolved to keep reading and hold back any similar documents to protect their memory of their son. It would hardly do to have them vilify his name after he was gone.

In a large envelope labeled "Daniel," there was a packet of short letters, each reading approximately the same, with some variation of amusing anecdotes and explanatory information about something that had been removed. It pained me to read them.

* * *

Beloved,

I forget sometimes how monotonous life can be without you nearby. Granted, there are still the arguments and the politics, and our friends are ever ready to have a row if I'm tired of quiet. But other than that, I wake in the morning and miss you; I have dinner alone and miss you; I talk to our mad brothers and miss you; I go to bed and wish to God you were with me.

Yours, whatever the distance,  
Daniel

* * *

The next envelope down had some of the oddities described briefly in the letters: a sheaf of finely executed drawings, most in pen, all in the same style. The first ones were of the men I had so briefly called brothers in their favorite haunts: Enjolras raising a hand to make a particular point in an argument; Joly rubbing his nose with his cane, as he was wont to do; Combeferre and Bossuet playing at chess with studious expressions. 

The next pages surprised me -- for here were these same familiar men, elegantly caught by a trick of posture or dress -- but they were clinging to one another. Here Jean swooned in Bahorel's arms; in the next, he had his arms around Bossuet with such an adoring look on his face that it made me ache, remembering the nights I had spent with him. In one, which seemed so true to life that I felt tears spring to my eyes for my lost friends, Enjolras' cold demeanor melted away, warmed by Combeferre's embrace.

And yet I was not prepared for the final set, which burned my eyes with tears of longing. They were a labor of love, painstakingly rendered. In the first, Aimery and Daniel shared a kiss, their arms around each other's naked bodies. The curves of their bodies fit perfectly, comfortably, and I knew it was no exaggeration on the part of the artist. The imagined caresses trumpeted love; I was absurdly jealous of one, of both, for though I had my sweet Cosette, I had never had any impact on these lovely men, never mind that I ached for them.

If it had been anyone else depicted, I might have closed my eyes, sealed the envelope, and burned the pages, but I had known them, had slept between them and felt the heat of their hands on my body. Could I have put it away before I looked further? Perhaps, but I had no desire to do so. The following page was a tangle of limbs, several smaller drawings that made my pulse pound in my ears. Daniel knelt before Aimery, who leaned against a wall, knotting a hand in his hair and watching him avidly. Aimery returned the favor with gusto as Daniel arched off of a bed, their hands twined together. Across the bottom half of the page, from three different angles, they devoured each other, greedy hands tugging on hips, pressing searching fingers between spread legs, and everywhere hungry mouths eager to be filled and give pleasure.

My head spun, taking in this blatant, adoring display. I could almost smell Aimery's room, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, and the light, acrid tinge of oil paint. I missed them more sharply than I had since I first discovered that they were gone; I wished I could hear their voices, touch their hands, anything but sit alone in a closet and look at drawings of them that Daniel would have torn in two, had he ever known I would see them. The thought killed my ardor. I began to wonder if they somehow knew that I was rifling through their possessions, but I pushed the thought aside as superstition. I was not finished looking at the pictures, let alone the letters, and it did not seem prudent to send either on to Aimery's parents uncensored. 

The next letter was in a hand I did not know. Its contents made me all the more determined not to send anything along without reading it first. 

* * *

Dearest Aimery,

You ought not to leave us; you must know how we miss you and ache in your presence. I woke this morning certain I could taste you and found myself with my thumb in my mouth, whimpering into the pillow. Christophe laughed at me and bade me kiss him, but I would not until we had had breakfast. 

If you were here, cher, you would be enjoying yourself as we are. I know you are by the sea and it cannot possibly be as calamitously hot there as it is here -- my ink dries the moment I open the bottle. Christophe has been taking care of me for the last few days; our arrangement is that he will bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so long as I promise not to dress in his brief absences. It has held since Monday. Who knows how long it may persist, with Bossuet at home and you abroad? 

We play such games as we have the energy for in this weather, though lassitude often overcomes us as soon as the flames of passion die. Would that you were with us, beloved. Yesterday Christophe would not let me out of bed. Nothing would content him but that I should suck him while he did the same to me, his agile tongue and fingers teasing me until I was on the verge of screaming and had to let him go to gasp for breath. And then he would stop, damn him, and chuckle at me as he always does, until I recovered myself enough to let him press into my throat again. Whenever he began again, it was as if nothing had gone before, and he was so gentle it made me want to kill him. Does he do the same to you, cher, pretending he does not know you tremble for him even when you tell him so? It must have gone on for an hour, Christophe playing the virgin whenever I grew too close to coming or pushing me away before he lost control, before I broke down and begged him. 

I am sure I swore scandalous things to end that delicious torture, promised him anything he could conceive of, any favors he could demand of me, but he only laughed at me, telling me he would do as he liked without my promises. It made me shiver, not unpleasantly, for I knew it was all in keeping with the game. I knelt on the blessedly cool floor and let him take my mouth, all his well-stoked passion overflowing at last. I wished you were there so strongly that I could almost feel you inside me as warm and desperate as he was. 

When he had caught his breath, he bound my hands, ignoring my protests. I did not want him to subject me to another hour of anticipation. I begged him all the while, repeating my earlier promises, but he would only give me feather-light touches, enough to make me whimper but never truly sufficient. He fetched a few pillows -- does he do that to you, love, putting you on a pedestal as it were? He laughed at me again, and I despaired, preparing myself to wait until dawn or later before he grew bored. 

Perhaps that despair was what he had been seeking, for as I let my body relax onto the pillows in recognition of a long, torturous night, he pressed his fingers inside of me and I cursed him, laughing. He had had enough of teasing, finally; I could feel the determination as he began again, this time in earnest. Every tease he had used earlier was magnified, the final copy of a painting instead of a sketch, and when I began to shiver he encouraged me. I tried to hold myself back at first, afraid that he would suddenly stop again, but he did not, and I had no choice but to trust him, to press against his tormenting tongue and the full heat of his fingers, and let myself descend into madness. 

I don't know how long it was before I woke again, but he had freed my hands and pulled the sheet over me, and at some point he had acquired dinner. I sat up, exhausted and dizzy. He brought me a bowl of soup and reminded me that I wasn't getting out of bed. I wrinkled my nose at him, but I was too hungry to argue. After the soup, I felt a little better, enough that when he offered me dessert I could imagine enjoying it. 

His dessert was melted chocolate, which I discovered only after he had smeared some on my chest and nuzzled me to lick it off. Perhaps it had been a neat bar when he bought it; between the day and the warmth of his hand, it fairly drizzled off of his thumb. I have come to know Christophe's requests when I see them, so I sat on his lap and captured his hand to suck the remnants of the first piece from his fingers. Always one diabolical step ahead, while I suckled his thumb he wrote his name in sweet goo across my belly, then pushed me down on the bed to trace the letters with his tongue. I had thought I was exhausted, but that was before I slept for perhaps an hour and had lunch. By the time he drew chocolate lines up the insides of my thighs, I pushed his wrist upward, asking for him to decorate my renewed erection. 

"Not yet," he told me, and "Turn over." The maddening brute. He left sticky fingerprints on my shoulder blades, down my spine, and in meandering lines over my buttocks that tickled abominably when he cleaned them. He let me catch my breath after that, so that I might not choke on the pillow in my laughter. I settled in his arms, wondering -- hardly for the first time -- if it were possible to feel as utterly protected anywhere else. I don't love him simply because he is formidable, but it is a reassuring strength nevertheless. 

Again we teased each other -- I say we, though I bore the brunt of it, for he can easily hold my hands over my head with one hand and torment me with the other. One would think that as a devoté of equality in all things, our dear Christophe would be less bent on torturing his acquaintances and friends, but whatever his professed politics, when I protested he laughed at me. I am sure he knew how sincere I was -- admittedly, not very. I've felt drunk since this began, dizzy with pleasure and willing to submit to his fancies, however ludicrous. When I found the chocolate, I retaliated until he pinned me to the bed and kissed me hard enough that I could barely breathe. He took my breath away again with a series of caresses; I could not help but beg him never to stop, the wicked man, and for once he was sympathetic. 

Afterward we lay together. The world felt blurred around me and I held onto him tightly; sweet Christophe knew, he must have known, how close to madness I was, for we spoke of mundane things until I fell asleep again. He was gone when I woke, but one of his books was on the bedside table, so I read Virgil until he came home. It might have been one hour or three. Without my watch, I had no clear idea. 

He was grinning from ear to ear when he came back, that charming leer that announces to the world that he is desperately proud of himself. "I brought a present," he told me gleefully, undressing with great haste. 

It took me a few moments to return to myself. He was nude by the time I could think in French again. I set the book aside and reached toward him, begging for an embrace. Instead he pressed something searingly, blissfully cold to my chest and slid it down my stomach, leaving a wet trail. I am sure I gasped, certain I cursed him, and positive that when the cold reached lower I braced my feet on the floor and arched toward him. He laughed at me, as he teases anyone who shows half as much passion he does. "Turn over, chéri," he said, and I did, knowing full well that the only other choice was to get out of bed where no one would rub disintegrating diamonds of ice down my back or press them inside me. I had to hide my face in the pillow for fear someone would hear me; I could not make myself stop crying out. The precious, vicious stuff lost its form within me, but Christophe's fingers followed, once, twice, and before I could take a breath I was deliciously full of him, burning with the residual cold and the ecstatic press of his body. He laughed again, gasping out his chuckles, and I sat back on my knees, meeting his thrusts. 

After a few minutes, the cold had faded and Christophe paused. I reached back, seeking him, incoherent, and he kissed me. I turned to face him and he pulled away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed before he let me embrace him again. I ached for him, and I wished you were there. You mitigate his teasing at least as often as you magnify it. 

When I slid onto his lap, my cheek against his warm chest as he filled me again, I murmured to him that I missed you. "Soon," he said, breathless, and I decided to write to you even as he kissed me and the tension began to trickle down my spine. He held firmly to my hips, trying to stop me from moving. I could only rock a little and sigh, wanting nothing more than for him to move, sharply, quickly, with all the passion I knew he held in check. He ignored my pleas and when I thought I had slid free of his hands, he tugged me close again and embraced me, telling me, "Wait," and caressing me until I shuddered and swore to him that I would die if he didn't fuck me. 

That penetrated his fogged brain as nothing had and he helped me up, guided me quickly to kneel on the bed, bracing myself against the wall. At every stroke he raked his fingernails down my back until I was sobbing with the sting, begging for more with every breath he forced out of my lungs. He kept his hands on my back except to pinch my nipples, and every pinch made me gasp anew. I could not move my hands, could not induce him to move his until I was dizzy with lack of breath and I begged him -- oh, how I begged him. He gave me release at last, tugging it from me with unmerciful force, not slowing his thrusts in the least. I swear to you it was not a single climax, not after the debauchery he had subjected me to, not with the tingle of ice and the delectable burn of him within me. I hardly knew when he climaxed; by then I was halfway unconscious. I did not wake fully until morning, when he pressed last night's dinner upon me -- those parts that did not spoil in the heat -- and clucked over the state of my back, all penitence. 

Come home, beloved. Help me hold Christophe's hands down and tie his ankles to to the bedposts. He won't yield to me, but between us we can best him, particularly when he is pleased to see you and off his guard. I want you to kneel over his chest and let me suck you while he watches, unable to move until he pleads for mercy and we decide he's suffered enough adoring torment. I cannot imagine freeing him before we are both at least temporarily sated. Let him watch; it will do him no harm to be the patient one for once. Help me repay my great debt to him. 

With deepest longing,  
Jehan 

* * *

I had not yet seen anything that could match it for prurience, and from Jehan -- whom I had thought I knew at least as well as the rest. I decided that none of Aimery's correspondents could possibly be trustworthy unless they were his own parents.

The next set of drawings further confirmed my fears. 

* * *

Beloved,

I rarely employ models, but I assure you that this one was fully compensated.

We miss you desperately.

Yours,  
Daniel

* * *

The related drawings made me blush crimson. I had never imagined that Daniel would use a model, as he put it, but when he said it, I pictured some lovely, lithe creature. Not Bahorel.

And yet there he was, in all his robust glory, kissing Daniel on one half of the page and Aimery on the next. I could see the differences in the lines that marked a pose done from life rather than mirrors or sketches. It lent Bahorel an immediacy that suited him perfectly and made him seem about to take a breath, pen and ink or no. I glanced through the stack briefly and felt my cheeks flame with renewed embarrassment at the images: Bahorel captured in mid-thrust with Aimery's legs around his waist, his hand resting on Aimery's cheek with a tenderness I could not credit; Daniel straining toward a tantalizing touch while Bahorel grinned at him with a satyr's leer and bent close to him, teasing unmercifully; Aimery spreadeagled on Bahorel's lap, arms around his neck, kissing him while Bahorel fondled him; another group of Daniel's many perspectives, this one with Bahorel on his knees and Aimery behind him while Daniel clung to Aimery's hips, the rhythm of their cascading movements almost palpable.

I shivered, imagining myself in each drawing almost against my will. I knew the sharp taste of Aimery's mouth, the dusty scent of Daniel's skin, and the inevitable force of Christophe inside my body. I missed them and mourned them anew. My eyes prickled with tears I had never shed for my lost friends, and I put everything away carefully, stumbling out of the closet and claiming that the dust was in my eyes.

When I next ventured in several days later, I found an envelope labeled "Julien." It took me a moment to remember who that was, and when I did I shuddered. There was no letter in his neat hand -- how often had I seen Enjolras writing? Every evening it seemed he began a new tract -- but it was only another note from Daniel.

* * *

Beloved,

I told Julien that without you, I have little chance to draw anyone. He kindly sat for me.

Kindly refrain from telling him I showed you these.

Yours,  
Daniel

* * *

I braced myself for another pornographic cavalcade of madness, but the first sketch was only Enjolras, dressed impeccably, reading a book. In the next, he had shed his jacket and his cravat. A line stood between his brows, marking his fair face with worry. Before the third picture, Daniel had clearly employed every ounce of charisma I had known him to possess, for Enjolras sat on the edge of a bed in a half-unbuttoned shirt, without trousers, his hair loose. He looked far too young to be as stalwart as I knew he had been. In the last picture in the series, though, he was nude, and somehow utter physical vulnerability gave him the bravery and dignity I remembered in him. It was not a sexual picture, but a portrait of such solemn beauty that I shivered, wondering madly if I had betrayed Enjolras' memory. I read the short note again and decided that however I might have betrayed my promises to him and his friends, at least I had not done it while he was alive.

The next picture had no explanation, although I would have liked one. It was Combeferre, sitting on Aimery's bed with a wry, uncomfortable smile. Perhaps he had tried to pose and failed; perhaps the rest was so spectacularly successful that it was somewhere else, but I never found it.

A waft of perfume accompanied a letter written in violet ink and a consciously rounded hand in which every i was dotted with a tiny flower.

* * *

Dearest Aimery,

I am pining away in your absence. How could you abandon one who loves you so cruelly? You must return to me soon or I shall die without you. Every night I dream of the familiar touch of your hands, and every morning I am bitterly disappointed when I wake alone. Some day soon I must wake and find you beside me. Only your kisses can stave off madness.

When you come back, will you meet me in the gardens? You are irresistible in the sunlight, beloved. In truth, you are irresistible in any light and any setting, but as I walked there yesterday I touched the smooth bark of a tree and dreamed of your warm weight pressing me against it.

Hurry home to me, my love. I have tried to console myself with dear Christophe, but you must know that his caresses are not the equal of yours, and though he amuses me for an hour, he cannot fulfill my heart as deeply as the barest touch of your hand.

When you arrive, do be sure to have some days free; I cannot imagine letting you go willingly while I still have the strength to cling to your hand and plead with you to stay.

Yours in body and soul,  
Jeannette

* * *

I only understood the florid, overblown prose when I reached the signature. It was no lady's correspondence at all -- that much was clear from the blatant sexuality in the text -- but I had not guessed it, too, was from Jean Prouvaire. Without the shame his prior missive had inspired in me, I reread it, hearing his light voice in my mind and imagining the texture of his skin. We had been lovers briefly; I was hardly his most spectacular liaison, but I had some idea that he had been fond of me. On my part, it was certainly not as meaningful as my time with Cosette, but it had been sweet at the time. He seemed such a gentle boy; I could never fathom why he was part of the brotherhood, but he was there, and he died as easily as the rest.

Again I found myself with tears in my eyes for someone whom I had not thought of for months. Disgusted with myself, I brushed them away impatiently and began to sort more quickly, reading only the signature of letters to sort them into one pile or another. Aimery's family pile was all the letters from themselves, all of the correspondence having to do with his schoolwork, and anything else that would not endanger his memory, including a few relatively innocuous notes from mistresses. The other, much taller pile was everything I intended to burn: love notes from a veritable harem who all swore undying devotion, all of the drawings Daniel had done, and anything else that I would not show my grandfather if it were mine.

I rechecked the pile for his parents several times before I finally sent it, along with any books that I neither needed nor wanted. The rest went back into a box. I kept meaning to burn it, along with the portrait, but when I dreamed of my friends in the night and woke with dream cannon resounding in my ears, the only respite I had from my memories was rereading the letters and looking at the pictures of them when they were happy.

After a few years, I donated the portrait to an art gallery, gave the artist's name, and left quickly. Cosette had never known it was in the house. Every so often, when I looked in the mirror and found another wrinkle or looked at my children and realized how old they were growing, I went to visit Aimery's portrait. Perhaps I was the only one who could see the artist's face in it as clearly as his subject's. Whenever I went, I knew I would leave suppressing tears with Daniel's name clenched tight behind my teeth and the scent of Aimery's room fresh in my nostrils despite the decades. I could not pay my debts to them, but I could remember them. The portrait was their only immortality. I could never have betrayed them by destroying it.


	69. Dramatis Personae (Not A Chapter)

Cast of Characters

Principals

Julien Enjolras. Priest of the ideal turned temple prostitute. A beautiful blond boy who dreams revolutionary dreams.

Audric Combeferre. Julien's lover, a mild-mannered young man of similar political fervor but a more practical bent.

Jean-Thierry "Jehan" Prouvaire. Poet, romantic, and dreamer. Awfully flighty, but most affectionate.

Théophile Lesgle, a.k.a. Bossuet. A postmaster's son from the north, rife with puns and lucky in nothing except love.

Daniel Feuilly. Rather solemn boy who makes fans for a living, and does not let peculiar ceremonies deter him from pursuing his ideals.

Aimery Courfeyrac. A lad of good family and high spirits, persuasive and charming, with the well-earned nickname of "Aimé".

Chrétien Joly. Incipient hypochondriac, future physician, perennial bundle of nerves, and Bossuet's constant companion.

Christophe Bahorel. Inveterate rabble-rouser and loafer, who enjoys a good argument and a good lay, in that order.

Augustin Grantaire. A skeptic and cynic of the highest caliber, who overimbibes and admires pretty, promiscuous boys from afar.

Others

Marius Pontmercy. A pleasant if slightly confused boy, encountered by Bossuet and befriended by Aimery, who comes and goes.

Rosalie. Lacemaker, sometime object of Daniel's affections.

Musichetta. A charming if elusive young lady beloved of Chrétien.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written from 2002-2003 and has not been edited since. Its views, pacing, and choices of POV do not necessarily reflect the current capabilities of its authors.


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